Chapter 2 - THE WATCH ON THE DASHBOARD
The screen of Malcolm’s phone glowed in the dim light of my study, casting a harsh blue reflection across the antique mahogany desk.
On the display, the frozen frame of the traffic camera showed the black SUV idling near the park entrance. But it wasn't the vehicle that made the air in the room suddenly feel thin. It was the man standing beside the driver's door, caught mid-stride as he looked directly into the lens.
I knew that face.
Every powerful man in Chicago knew that face.
Julian Vance.
My stomach twisted, a cold, heavy sensation dropping like lead into my chest. Julian wasn't just a businessman or a rival contractor bidding on city waterfront developments. He was the head of the Vance syndicate—a man whose brutality was masked by thousands of tailored suits and generous donations to mayoral campaigns. For years, our organizations had maintained an uneasy, blood-stained truce. We operated on opposite sides of the river, respecting each other's boundaries.
Until tonight.
“Boss?” Malcolm asked, his voice low and tight. He knew what Julian Vance meant. He also knew what I meant when the coldness settled into my eyes. “Do you want me to mobilize the outer perimeter?”
I didn't answer immediately. I looked down.
Beside the desk, Norah was curled into the corner of the leather sofa. She had pulled my oversized wool coat completely around her shoulders, swallowing her small frame until only her pale face and dark eyes were visible. In her right hand, she clutched the battered stuffed rabbit with the pink-stitched ear. Her breathing was slow, heavy with exhaustion, but she was still awake. She was watching me with that terrible, quiet alertness that no seven-year-old child should ever possess.
Seeing her reminded me of Juniper.
Three years ago, when the winter snow had fallen and taken my daughter away, I had sworn that no child would ever suffer because of the monsters hiding in the dark corners of this city. I had built an empire to protect my grief, to ensure that nobody could ever touch what was mine.
And now Julian Vance had put his hands on a little girl sitting in a Chicago park on Christmas Eve.
“No perimeter mobilization yet,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “If we move too loudly, Julian will scatter. I want to know why his car was at that park, and I want to know what he put into the mother's car.”
Malcolm nodded once. “The traffic footage from the alley behind the park just finished processing. My team is pulling the secondary angles now. But Boss... there's something else on that phone.”
He tapped the screen, sliding a second image into view.
It was a close-up still from the dashboard camera of the black SUV, captured just as it had accelerated away from our car earlier that night. Through the tinted windshield, the driver's side was illuminated by a streetlamp.
A man was sitting behind the wheel. Not Julian Vance.
A man with a jagged scar running from his left jawline down to his collar—Victor Vance, Julian’s ruthless younger brother and chief enforcer.
“Victor,” I muttered.
The pieces were beginning to fit together, forming a picture far uglier than I had initially imagined. Julian didn't just want land or municipal contracts. If Victor was personally involved in whatever happened to Norah’s mother, it meant personal blood was spilled.
“Malcolm,” I said, standing up from the desk. The leather chair scraped softly against the Persian rug. “Take two reliable men. Go to St. Jude’s Hospital downtown. The John Doe ward. Find Norah’s mother. Put a permanent guard at her door—no doctors, no nurses, no police officers get near her without my direct authorization. If anyone tries, you call me immediately.”
“Consider it done, Boss,” Malcolm replied, turning toward the heavy oak door.
“And Malcolm?”
He paused, looking back over his shoulder.
“Check her personal effects. Especially anything the paramedics brought in with her.”
Malcolm’s eyes flicked to Norah, then back to me. He understood. Without another word, he slipped out of the study, the heavy door clicking shut behind him like the bolt of a rifle.
I exhaled slowly, turning back toward the sofa.
Norah hadn't moved. She was staring at the silver pocket watch resting on the edge of my desk—the watch that had belonged to my grandfather, the one I wound every single night at midnight.
“Are you cold, Norah?” I asked, softening my tone as I walked over and knelt down beside the sofa.
She shook her head slowly. Her brown hair, damp from the melting snow, clung to her forehead.
“My mama has a watch like that,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “Well, she had one. Before the loud noises started.”
“What loud noises, Norah?”
Her dark eyes drifted up to mine, filled with a sudden, overwhelming wave of fear. She reached out, her small, ice-cold fingers grabbing the sleeve of my shirt, exactly as she had done in the car.
“In the garage,” she breathed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Mama told me to hide in the backseat under her winter coat. She said she had to give the bad men what they wanted so we could go home. But then... there was a big crash. Like thunder inside a building. And Mama didn't come back to the car. A strange man opened the door. He didn't see me under the coat. But I saw what he put in the glove box.”
My chest tightened. “What did he put in the glove box, Norah?”
She swallowed hard, her lower lip trembling. “A little silver box. With a red ribbon painted on it. And when he closed the door, he dropped something on the floor mat.”
She reached into the deep pocket of my wool coat, fumbled for a second, and pulled out a small, metallic object, holding it out on her open palm.
I looked down.
Resting on her small hand was a heavy gold signet ring, engraved with a crest I recognized instantly.
The Vance family crest.
Before I could reach out to take it, the private telephone on my desk—the secure, encrypted line that rang maybe five times a year—began to ring. Its sharp, mechanical tone shattered the silence of the room like breaking glass.
I stood up, walked slowly back to the desk, and stared at the blinking red light.
It was calling from an unlisted number.
May you like
I picked up the receiver and brought it to my ear.
“Gideon,” a smooth, chillingly familiar voice purred from the other end of the line. Julian Vance. “I hear you have a guest tonight. It’s Christmas Eve. Don't you think it's time you returned what belongs to my family?”
