Chapter 2 - The Fracture LinesThe morning sun cast long, pale bars of light across the study floor when Luke walked in without knocking, carrying a fresh cup of black coffee and a thick tablet detailing dock shipments. He stopped dead in his tracks three feet from the threshold, his sharp eyes darting from my face to the corner of the room.
Emma was gone, but she had left behind her cleaning caddy and a half-empty mug of lukewarm tea.
"She stayed," Luke stated, not asking a question. His tone was flat, carrying that underlying edge of protective suspicion that had kept us both alive for fifteen years. "The night staff logs show she didn't punch out until dawn. Security cameras caught her coming out of your private wing at five in the morning looking like a ghost."
I took the coffee from him, my hands steady, though my shoulders ached from holding myself rigid all night. "She collapsed from exhaustion, Luke. Leave it."
"Danny, she's a liability," Luke pressed, stepping closer, his boots clicking sharply against the marble. "We run an empire out of this house. Millions in contraband move through our channels weekly, and we've got a civilian wandering around your bedroom because she can't keep her eyes open? If Mercer's people catch wind that there's a civilian inside the fortress who has access to your private quarters, they’ll use her to get to you."
The mention of Colin Mercer—my primary rival on the North Side, a ruthless shark who had been circling our territory ever since my legs stopped working—made the air in the room turn to ice.
"Mercer doesn't know she exists," I said coldly, my grip tightening around the ceramic mug until my knuckles turned white. "And if anyone makes an attempt to use her, they’ll find out why they used to call me the Butcher of South Loop."
"Then fire her," Luke said bluntly. "Pay her a severance package—ten grand, twenty grand, whatever it takes—and send her back to her diner. Let her solve her own financial problems."
"No."
Luke blinked, genuine surprise flickering across his hardened face. In the two years since the sniper’s bullet, I had fired cooks for breathing too loudly, dismissed physical therapists for clearing their throats, and banished half the staff for looking at me with pity. Keeping someone who had violated my ultimate boundary—sleeping by my bed—went against every rule of survival I had established.
"No?" Luke repeated, narrowing his eyes. "Danny, what game are you playing? You've terrorized everyone else into walking on eggshells, and now you're keeping a broke diner waitress who talks back to you?"
"She doesn't tiptoe," I murmured, staring down into the dark surface of my coffee. "Everyone else in this house treats me like a fragile piece of porcelain or a rabid dog behind a fence. Emma looks at me like I'm just an asshole who's making her job harder. I respect that."
Luke let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "You're playing with fire, boss. People like us don't get to have soft spots. The moment you care about someone—even a little bit—is the moment you hand your enemies a loaded gun."
"I don't have a soft spot," I lied, my voice dropping an octave. "She's efficient. That's all."
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Before Luke could argue further, the intercom on my desk chimed. A timid voice belonging to Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, came through the speaker. "Mr. Vance? Miss Carter is downstairs... she’s asking if she can pick up her extra shift in the East Wing library today. She looks... well, sir, she looks like she's about to pass out."
I looked at Luke, then pressed the speaker button. "Send her to my study."
