Chapter 3 - The Fortress on Lake Shore
Moving out of apartment 3B took less than two hours.
When Mrs. Patel helped me pack our two battered suitcases into the trunk of a sleek, black town car that Dante had dispatched to our curb, the elderly woman had looked at me with a mixture of relief and deep, abiding dread.
“Child, wealthy men don’t pull single mothers out of slums for nothing,” she had warned me, her wrinkled hand resting on my arm. “Be careful what kind of fire you’re walking into.”
“It’s just a job, Mrs. Patel,” I had lied, adjusting Lily in her carrier against my chest. “Just an administrative job.”
Now, standing in the foyer of my new home, I realized just how enormous that lie was.
The apartment wasn’t an apartment. It was a sprawling, three-bedroom penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan, located on the top floor of a high-rise secured by private biometric elevators and armed guards in the lobby. The floors were polished white marble, the furniture was modern and minimalist, and the floor-to-ceiling windows framed the gray, crashing waves of the lake under a heavy Chicago sky.
A nursery had already been set up in the second bedroom.
When I walked inside, gasping softly at the sight of a white wooden crib, a plush rocking chair, and shelves lined with brand-new books and organic toys, a lump formed in my throat. It wasn't just furnished; it was complete. As if someone had known exactly what Lily needed before I even had the chance to ask.
“Is everything satisfactory, Ms. Mitchell?”
I spun around. A middle-aged woman in a crisp gray dress stood near the doorway, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her expression was polite, professional, and entirely unreadable.
“Mrs. Vance,” I managed to say, remembering the introduction from twenty minutes ago. “It’s... it’s more than satisfactory. It’s overwhelming.”
“Mr. Russo does not do things by halves,” she replied smoothly. “Your wardrobe will arrive tomorrow morning. A private pediatrician has already been scheduled for Lily’s eight-month checkup on Thursday. Your schedule as his executive assistant begins at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow.”
She stepped forward and handed me a heavy, leather-bound planner and a secure, encrypted smartphone.
“Mr. Russo’s private office is located in the West Loop, at the apex of the shipping conglomerate. You will be picked up at seven-thirty. Do you have any questions?”
I looked down at the encrypted phone, its black screen reflecting my own stunned face.
“Just one,” I said, looking up at Mrs. Vance. “Where is Mr. Russo right now?”
May you like
A faint, knowing shadow crossed the older woman’s eyes.
“Mr. Russo is where he always is, Ms. Mitchell. Managing the shadows so the city can see the light.”
