Chapter 4 - The Shadow Over St. Jude’s
I stepped back into the shadows of the alcove as a pair of orderlies rolled a clattering food cart past the doorway.
My mind was already working with the cold, frictionless efficiency of a high-end machine. Eighty thousand dollars was pocket change to me. I spent more than that on a single hand of baccarat at the underground clubs in River North or on a vintage bottle of Bordeaux to impress a corrupt city alderman. To Linda, it was an astronomical mountain of gold guarded by dragons; to Julian Gallo, it was a clerical error that could be resolved with a single phone call.
Yet, simply walking into that room and throwing an envelope of cash at her feet would break her pride. In her desperate, fragile state, charity from the man she cleaned houses for would feel like another humiliation, another chain wrapped around her ankles.
A man in my position doesn't just solve problems; he engineers outcomes.
I turned away from Room 412, pulled my leather gloves back over my knuckles, and walked briskly down the hallway toward the elevators. The hospital air felt thick, heavy with the scent of institutional despair, and I needed the cold Chicago wind to clear my head.
As the elevator doors slid open, my private encrypted burner phone vibrated against my ribs.
I pulled it out and flipped it open. The caller ID displayed a restricted number—Vance, my head of security and logistics.
“Boss,” Vance’s gravelly voice came through the encrypted channel without preamble. “We tracked your movements via the city traffic feeds. Are you alright? You left the estate without a detail in the middle of a freeze.”
“I’m fine, Vance,” I replied, my voice cutting through the static like a razor. “Listen to me very carefully. I want you to run a complete, exhaustive file on one of my domestic staff. Linda Vance. Twenty-four years old. North Side resident.”
There was a brief pause on the line as the digital keys clicked on Vance’s terminal back at the estate.
“Linda Morrison,” Vance corrected gently. “Records show her maiden name. Her employment file listed her as single, but background checks are thin on the medical side unless flagged by insurance.”
“She isn't insured through us because she’s a third-party catering contractor I bought out of her agency contract two months ago,” I muttered, stepping out of the hospital lobby and back into the stinging sleet. “Pull her medical files. Find out who runs the pediatric oncology wing at St. Jude’s County General. Specifically, find out which administrator or pharmaceutical board member pulled the plug on their trial grant subsidy this morning.”
Vance’s tone hardened instantly. “You want me to lean on them, boss? A little pressure from the Outfit usually makes hospital administrators rediscover their charitable side.”
“No,” I said, pausing beneath the awning of the hospital entrance as a city bus hissed past, throwing up a wave of dirty slush. “Not yet. I don't want a scandal, and I don't want the hospital board launching internal compliance reviews that could red-flag the boy's chart. I want to know who authorized the withdrawal, how much it would cost to buy the entire experimental slot outright, and whether that pharmaceutical board member has any private debts or illicit side-deals my legal team can leverage.”
“Understood. Give me two hours,” Vance replied.
“Make it one,” I snapped, snapping the burner phone shut and plunging it back into my coat pocket.
May you like
I signaled for a passing town car that had been trailing three car lengths behind me—my invisible tail, always watching even when I wanted to walk alone—and slid into the warm leather interior.
“Take me back to the North Side,” I ordered the driver. “And stop by the financial district. I have a ledger to balance.”
