Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Glass
By Friday afternoon, my entire world had been completely upended.
I no longer lived in my small, damp apartment in Pilsen. Under Vincent’s orders, Grandma and I were moved to a high-security residential building in Gold Coast, just ten minutes from Hayes Tower. The apartment was bright, spacious, and filled with modern amenities I had only ever seen on television. Two discrete, armed guards sat in a sleek sedan parked across the street twenty-four hours a day.
Grandma was thriving. The private care team at Northwestern had stabilized her kidney function, and for the first time in years, her cheeks had color and she was walking without her cane.
"He's a good man, Claire," Grandma had told me over the phone that morning as she ate her breakfast. "A bit dark, maybe, but a man who takes care of people."
If only you knew what he actually does for a living, I had thought to myself.
In the corporate world of Hayes Tower, I was learning the ropes at a terrifying speed. I organized Vincent's high-level schedules, screened his incoming calls, and sat quietly in the corner during executive meetings, taking notes and watching every movement in the room.
The atmosphere in the building was thick with suspicion. The executives viewed me with a mixture of resentment and fear. To them, I was an outsider—an uneducated former cleaner who had somehow enchanted the most dangerous man in Chicago.
"He's using her," I heard two female accountants whisper in the restroom during lunch. "She's probably his secret mistress, or worse, a distraction before he purges the department."
I didn't care about the gossip. I cared about survival.
At 3:00 p.m., Vincent called me into his private study behind the main penthouse office.
The study was a quiet, dimly lit room lined with thousands of leather-bound books, antique weapons mounted on display cases, and a massive glass display containing intricate maps of Chicago's underground rail network.
Vincent was sitting at his mahogany work table, reviewing a map of the Port of Chicago. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms crisscrossed with old, faint scars—battle marks from his rise to power.
"Claire," he said without looking up. "Bring the file on the North Avenue docks."
I walked over to the filing cabinet, retrieved the blue tabbed folder, and laid it on his desk. As I leaned over, my fingers accidentally brushed against his wrist.
An electric shock seemed to pass between us. I instinctively pulled my hand back, but Vincent reached out and gently caught my wrist. His skin was warm, his grip firm yet remarkably tender.
He looked up at me, his sharp gray eyes searching my face.
"You're working too hard," he murmured softly. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Just... adjusting to the pace."
"You've done exceptionally well," Vincent said, his thumb lightly tracing the pulse point on my wrist. "My uncle Dominic tried to corner you in the lobby yesterday, didn't he?"
I blinked, surprised. "How did you know?"
"I know everything that happens in this building," Vincent replied softly. "Did he threaten you?"
"He told me that people who fly too high in this building usually end up falling out of windows," I admitted, remembering the cold, sinister threat Dominic had hissed in my ear near the coffee bar. "I told him I was used to high places since I cleaned the windows on the 50th floor."
A genuine, low chuckle escaped Vincent’s chest. The sound was rich and warm, a rare sound that transformed his harsh, sharp features into something breathtakingly handsome.
"You really are something else, Claire," he said, releasing my wrist slowly, though his eyes never left mine. "Dominic is a coward who relies on old reputation. But he is dangerous because he is desperate. He owes fifty million dollars to an offshore gambling syndicate, and his assets are tied up in Hayes Enterprises."
"Fifty million?" I echoed, stunned. "That's why he wants control of the company."
"He wants the company, or he wants me dead so he can liquidate our assets," Vincent said coldly. "The sabotage on the elevator... it had his fingerprints all over it, even if he used a proxy."
Before I could reply, the secure phone on Vincent’s desk began to ring. The red light flashed rhythmically.
Vincent picked up the receiver. "Talk to me, Luke."
I watched Vincent’s expression shift instantly from soft warmth back to pure ice. His jaw clenched, and his gray eyes darkened like a storm rolling over the lake.
"Are you sure?" Vincent asked into the receiver. A long pause followed. "Block the perimeter. Do not let anyone leave the lower levels. I'm coming down."
Vincent slammed the phone down and stood up in one fluid motion, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair.
"What happened?" I asked, stepping back.
"The man in the maintenance uniform," Vincent said, adjusting his cufflinks. "Our street team just spotted him trying to enter the sub-basement server room on level B4."
My breath hitched. "The sabotager?"
"He's back to finish the job," Vincent said, his voice laced with deadly promise. "Stay here, Claire. Lock the doors from the inside and do not open them for anyone except me or Luke."
"Vincent, wait!" I took a step toward him, a sudden surge of panic gripping my heart. "It might be a trap! What if he wants you to go down there?"
Vincent stopped near the heavy oak door. He turned back to look at me, a dark, dangerous smile touching his lips.
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"Then he’s going to be very disappointed with what he finds," Vincent said softly.
He slipped a small, black semi-automatic pistol from his desk drawer, clicked the safety off, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving me alone in the silent, heavy stillness of the penthouse.
