Chapter 2 - The Crimson LedgerBy seven o'clock the next morning, the domestic machinery of the estate was operating with its usual terrifying precision.
Luke stood just inside the study door, holding a steaming cup of black coffee and a fresh stack of encrypted intelligence reports. His sharp eyes scanned the room, instantly noting the slight disarray of my wheelchair’s positioning near the bed and the subtle tension in my jaw.
"You didn't sleep," Luke stated flatly, not asking a question.
"I slept enough," I grunted, wheeling myself backward from the executive desk and turning to face him. "What’s on the docket for today?"
"The South Side docks shipment is delayed due to federal port inspections. The board wants a decision on whether to liquidate the real estate holdings in Cicero. And..." Luke hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze dropping to the clipboard. "The head housekeeper reported an issue this morning."
My eyes narrowed. "What issue?"
"Emma didn't clock out after her shift ended at 4:00 AM. When security went to check the third-floor service quarters, they found her passed out on the rug outside your private hallway doors. She’s downstairs in the medical wing now getting checked out by Dr. Vance."
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the study.
"Who authorized security to touch her?" I asked, my voice dropping into a dark, lethal register that made Luke instinctively take a half-step back.
"Danny, nobody touched her," Luke replied carefully, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "She collapsed from sheer exhaustion. The girl worked nine hours at a diner in Pilsen yesterday, took two CTA buses across the city, and then scrubbed your floors until her knuckles bled. Nobody’s made of iron."
I slammed my fist against the armrest of my wheelchair, the heavy titanium frame vibrating under the impact. "I didn't hire her to die in my hallway! If she can't handle the physical demands of this estate, cut her a severance check and throw her out!"
"She refused the severance check," a cool, steady voice interrupted from the doorway.
Luke and I both turned our heads.
Dr. Sandra Vance—no relation to the criminal empire, just a fiercely competent trauma surgeon who had been paid an exorbitant retainer to keep me functional—stood in the doorway, holding a medical chart. Her white coat was crisp, her expression unreadable as she walked into the study.
"She’s awake," Dr. Vance said, tossing the chart onto my desk. "Blood pressure was 85 over 50. Severe dehydration, chronic calorie deficit, and second-degree chemical burns on both hands from using industrial stripping agents without proper protection. She’s malnourished, Danny. And if you push her much harder, she won't need a bullet to put her in the ground; her heart is simply going to stop."
I stared at the medical report, feeling an irrational surge of anger flare up in my throat. "Why are you telling me this? I run a syndicate, Sandra, not a charity ward."
"Because," Dr. Vance said, leaning over my desk and looking directly into my eyes with zero fear, "she’s the only person in this mausoleum who hasn't treated you like a fragile piece of porcelain or a rabid dog. She looked at my medical tray, asked if she could finish changing the bandages on her hands, and then tried to get back on her feet to finish cleaning your study. So no, Danny—you aren't firing her today. Because if you do, she won't survive the week outside these gates."
Dr. Vance turned sharply on her heel and walked out of the study, leaving Luke and me alone in the heavy morning light.
Luke looked down at me, a faint, cynical smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Well. Sounds like you’ve finally met your match, boss."
"Get out," I snarled.
May you like
Luke didn't argue. He placed the coffee cup down, laid the intelligence reports on the edge of the desk, and slipped out of the room.
When the heavy oak doors clicked shut, I gripped the rubber-coated hand rims of my wheelchair and propelled myself out of the study, heading straight down the long, echoing corridor toward the subterranean medical wing.
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