Chapter 2 - A WHISPER IN THE SHADOWS
The plastic stick felt heavier than lead in my palm. The two stark magenta lines burned against the white plastic, screaming an impossible, terrifying reality.
"Emma?" Liam’s knuckles rapped against the hollow bathroom door, the sound vibrating through the thin wood. "You’ve been in there twenty minutes. If you got food poisoning from that greasy diner again, I’m marching down there and throwing their fryer in the Chicago River."
"I'm fine!" My voice cracked, too high, vibrating with raw panic. "Just... stomach flu, Liam. Give me two minutes!"
I scrambled off the cold linoleum, shoving the positive test deep into the bottom of my cosmetic bag beneath layers of cotton pads and vintage compact powder. I splashed freezing water over my burning face, scrubbing away the cold sweat. When I looked in the warped mirror, my reflection terrified me. Huge blue eyes, pale skin, lips bitten raw. I didn't look like a woman holding her life together; I looked like a ghost awaiting execution.
When I unlocked the door, Liam was leaning against the peeling hallway wallpaper, holding two chipped ceramic mugs. His sandy-brown hair was messy, his hazel eyes narrowing instantly in concern as he took in my trembling frame.
"You look like you've seen a phantom," he said softly, handing me a mug of hot mint tea instead of the coffee my stomach had rejected. "Sit down before you pass out."
I sank into our second-hand thrift-store sofa, pulling my knees to my chest. "Just exhausted, Liam. Double shifts at the diner and studying for pharmacology finals are catching up to me."
"Don't lie to me, El," he murmured, using the forbidden nickname that made my spine stiffen.
He glanced toward the closed apartment window, where the low hum of West Side Chicago traffic rumbled. "You haven't been the same since that Obsidian Hotel gig six weeks ago. You disappear into your head. You check over your shoulder every time a black sedan slows down on our street." He crouched before me, his expression turning deadly serious. "Did something happen that night? Did you find what you were looking for?"
My throat closed up.
Six weeks ago, I hadn't taken that catering shift just for the extra hundred and fifty dollars. I had taken it because my father—Thomas Vance, a former senior accountant for the Chicago Syndicate before his mysterious 'car crash' three years ago—had left behind an encrypted ledger. A ledger with one name scribbled on the final blood-smeared page: Vitali.
I had gone to that gala seeking vengeance. I had gone to find the monster who destroyed my family.
Instead, I had stumbled into Alessandro Vitali's arms. I had looked into eyes that held a storm of grief as deep as my own, and in a single night of reckless, intoxicating vulnerability, I had given him my innocence, my body, and my shattered heart.
"I found nothing, Liam," I whispered, the lie tasting like ash. "Just rich people burning money."
Liam didn't look convinced, but before he could press further, a sudden flash of headlights cut across our living room ceiling.
Down on the street, two sleek, pitch-black Cadillac Escalades with tinted windows pulled up to the curb directly in front of our crumbling brownstone apartment. The engines purred with sinister precision.
My breath caught in my chest.
Four towering men in tailored dark suits and earpieces stepped out into the chilly autumn fog. The man in the lead adjusted his lapel, revealing the silver crest of a double-headed viper—the unmistakable insignia of the Vitali family.
"Emma," Liam whispered, his voice turning ice-cold as he peeked through the blinds. "Why is the Syndicate outside our front door?"
May you like
Before I could answer, heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed up our wooden staircase.
***
