Chapter 3 - The Broken ThreadBy sunrise on Christmas morning, the snow had stopped, leaving Chicago buried under a blinding, beautiful white sheet that mocked the ugliness hidden beneath it.
I didn't sleep. Men in my position don't get the luxury of rest when a war is being declared on their doorstep.
I was standing by the window in Norah’s suite, watching the distant skyline of the Loop catch the pale winter sun, when I heard a soft rustling behind me.
I turned around.
Norah was sitting up in the oversized hospital bed. She had discarded the hospital gown in favor of a soft, oversized cotton sweater I had ordered for her from a luxury boutique down the street. Her brown hair had been brushed out, falling in soft waves around her pale face.
In her arms, she held her gray rabbit with the pink-stitched ear.
Her hazel eyes locked onto mine, wide and cautious, devoid of the frantic terror from the night before, but still carrying the heavy, haunting weight of someone too young to understand what had happened.
“Good morning, Norah,” I said gently, walking over and pulling a chair up beside the mattress.
She didn't speak. She just clutched her rabbit tighter.
“Are you hungry? I had the kitchen send up pancakes, fresh fruit, and hot chocolate with real marshmallows.”
Her stomach gave a traitorous, audible rumble at the mention of food, bringing a tiny hint of color to her cheeks. She looked down at the bedside tray loaded with food, then back up at me.
“Are you a policeman?” she asked, her voice small and hesitant.
“No,” I said with a faint, humorless smile. “Police officers wear uniforms and carry badges. I wear suits and carry problems.”
“Then who are you?”
“My name is Gideon.”
“Mr. Vale?” she whispered, as if she had heard adults whispering the name in hushed, fearful tones before.
“Just Gideon is fine, Norah.”
She took a cautious bite of a pancake, chewing slowly while keeping her eyes fixed on me. “Where’s Mama?”
The question hit me right in the chest, echoing the hollow ache I had carried for three years since Juniper’s death. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, choosing my words with absolute care.
“Your mother is resting in the room right down the hall, Norah. She’s very sick, and the doctors are taking special care of her.”
“Is she sleeping?”
“Yes. But she’s safe. Nobody can hurt her here. I made sure of that.”
Norah’s lower lip quivered. A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn't cry out. She set her fork down and looked down at her hands. “They broke our door down.”
My entire body went rigid. The casual warmth in the room vanished.
“Who broke your door down, Norah?”
“Bad men,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Mama told me to hide under the bed. She gave me Mr. Bops—my rabbit—and told me not to make a sound. I heard shouting. And then... and then I heard a loud noise like a heavy book hitting the floor.”
She swallowed hard, her small fingers digging into the cotton fur of her toy.
“When I crawled out, the apartment was messy. Mama was lying on the floor by the kitchen table, and she wouldn't wake up. A man with a scar on his face looked under the bed, but he didn't see me because the blanket hung down too far. He said, ‘We need to find the kid before she talks to anyone.’ So I grabbed my coat, climbed out the fire escape, and ran to the park just like Mama always told me to do if strangers ever came.”
The cold fury inside me swelled into a roaring tidal wave.
They hadn't just attacked a random woman. They had hunted a mother and child in their own home, leaving Clara for dead while a seven-year-old girl escaped into a freezing Chicago blizzard with nothing but a stuffed rabbit.
“Norah,” I said, my voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that made syndicate lieutenants tremble. “Do you remember what the man with the scar looked like?”
She nodded slowly. “He had a tattoo on his hand. A snake wrapped around a dagger.”
The Iron Syndicate. The mark of Viktor Vance’s elite enforcers.
“Thank you for telling me, Norah,” I said softly, reaching out to gently touch her hand. “You were very brave. The bravest girl I’ve ever met.”
“Are we going to have to run again?” she asked, looking up with fear in her eyes.
May you like
I stood up, walking back to the window, looking out over the city that I owned, where men thought they could slaughter innocents in the dark without paying a price.
“No, Norah,” I promised, my voice carrying the absolute, unshakable weight of a vow written in stone. “Nobody is going to run anymore. From now on, they’re the ones who are going to be running.”
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