Chapter 1 - The Frozen Footsteps
The wind howling off Lake Michigan felt like razor blades against my skin, but I didn't care. I kept my wool coat collared up, my leather gloves tight against the steering wheel of my blacked-out SUV, following Beatrice Gallagher at a discreet distance.
She walked quickly, her head bowed against the bitter Chicago blizzard. Her thin coat was woefully inadequate for sub-zero weather, her hands shoved deep into her pockets as she clutched the faded canvas bag containing the stolen leftovers from my dining table.
For three miles, through the decaying alleys of the Pilsen district, she moved like a ghost dodging shadows. Why would a woman risking her life to steal prime rib walk through the city’s most dangerous territory in the dead of night?
She finally turned down an alley behind an abandoned, brick-strewn industrial building. I parked in the shadow of an overpass, killed the engine, and stepped out onto the crunching snow. I slipped my hand beneath my jacket, resting my fingers on the cold handle of my custom Kimber .45.
I trailed her into the dark, dilapidated basement entrance of the former meatpacking plant. The air inside smelled of rot, damp concrete, and ancient iron. Beatrice pulled a heavy key from around her neck, unlocked an unmarked steel door, and slipped inside.
I didn't wait. I glided down the stone steps, eased the door open before the latch could click, and stepped into the dim, warm light inside.
The room was surprisingly clean, heated by a small ceramic space heater plugged into an illegal tap. On a small cot against the far wall sat a frail, pale woman wrapped in heavy blankets. Her hair was stark white, though her face looked far too young for it. She was shivering, staring with hollow, haunted eyes as Beatrice pulled out the warm container of food.
“Look what I brought tonight, sweetheart,” Beatrice was saying softly, her voice filled with a tenderness I had never heard in my mansion. “Real beef. Sliced roast vegetables. You need your strength.”
The woman on the cot smiled weakly, her hands trembling as she took the plastic fork. Then, the light caught her profile.
My breath caught in my throat. My heart slammed against my ribs with the force of a sledgehammer. The gun in my hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
I knew that profile. I had buried a closed casket twelve years ago carrying what I believed were her ashes.
“Evelyn?” my voice choked out, breaking the quiet sanctuary.
Beatrice gasped, spinning around and dropping the container. She instinctively backed up to shield the cot, her eyes wide with sheer terror. “Mr. Falcone! Please—please don't hurt her! Take me, kill me, just leave her alone!”
I didn't hear Beatrice. I couldn't look at Beatrice. My eyes were locked onto the woman on the bed, whose pale blue eyes widened in stunned recognition.
“Julian?” the woman rasped, her voice a fragile whisper that shattered my soul into a thousand pieces.
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It was Evelyn. My younger sister. The princess of the Falcone syndicate who was supposed to have died in a car bombing in 2014—the tragedy that had triggered a decade-long war and brought me to the throne of Chicago’s underworld.
She wasn't dead. She was alive, hiding in a frozen cellar, fed by my maid with scraps from my own table.
