Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Envelope
The silence in the library was so dense it felt physical, heavy enough to choke on. Every guard in the room had their weapon drawn, polished steel reflecting the soft amber light of the chandelier. Luca’s small arms were wrapped around my neck like an iron band, his forehead pressed firmly into the crook of my shoulder. He was breathing in ragged, tiny hitches, as though he had finally found something he had been clinging to in his dreams.
Vincent Romano’s face was completely drained of color. The cold, impenetrable mafia boss who ruled Chicago from behind iron gates looked as though he had just seen a ghost walk out of the grave.
"Step away from the child, Ruby," Vincent said, his voice dangerously low, almost a whisper.
"I can't," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it. "He’s holding onto me. If I pull away, he's going to scream."
"He doesn't know who you are," Vincent hissed, stepping forward. "And right now, neither do I."
He held the white envelope between two gloved fingers. The blood smudged across the paper was still wet, gleaming dark crimson under the lights. My full name—Ruby Anne Jenkins—was written in sharp, deliberate calligraphy. Not even Mrs. Hastings at Lakeshore Domestic Placement knew my middle name. The only place that name existed was on my birth certificate, my eviction notice, and Mickey Sullivan’s worn black ledger.
"Who sent you here?" Vincent demanded. The guard standing to his left racked the slide of his pistol with a sickening metallic click.
"Nobody sent me!" I pressed my back against the bookshelf, tightening my arms around Luca to shield his little body. "I applied through an agency! Ask Mrs. Hastings! I didn't even know who lived in this house until I reached the gate!"
"Luca hasn't spoken three coherent words in six months," Vincent said, his black eyes fixing on mine like cold gun barrels. "He doesn't touch anyone. He doesn't let anyone touch him. He threw four women out of this house in three weeks. And yet, you walk through the door, and he calls you her."
"I don't know who 'she' is!" I cried out, my voice cracking under the terror. "I’m just a girl who couldn't pay her rent! Look at my purse! Look at my bank account! I have twelve dollars!"
Vincent stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, with absolute precision, he slid a silver letter opener into the fold of the blood-soaked envelope. He broke the seal and pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment, along with a small, heavy object that dropped into his palm with a soft metallic clink.
Vincent’s breath hitched.
I leaned forward slightly, unable to stop myself. In his palm rested a worn silver locket shaped like a tear. On its surface was carved a delicate crest—a falcon perched on a broken sword.
It was my mother’s locket. The one she wore until the day she died in a quiet hospital bed six years ago. The one I had pawned three weeks ago to pay Mickey Sullivan’s interest fee.
"What is that?" Vincent whispered, his composure cracking entirely. "Where did you get this crest?"
"That’s mine," I gasped, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. "That belonged to my mother! I pawned it at a shop on 4th Street last month! I swear to God!"
Vincent unfolded the parchment. His eyes swept across the handwritten note, and as he read, the tension in his shoulders shifted from cold hostility to brutal, lethal focus.
"Read it aloud, Boss," the guard murmured softly.
Vincent’s eyes never left me. His voice sounded like grinding stones.
“A debt is never paid in cash when it was made in blood, Vincent. You took my future. I take your son’s nanny. She carries the blood of the Falcon. If she stays in your house past midnight, Chicago burns.”
"Mickey Sullivan," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "Mickey... he told me Friday was my deadline. He... he tracked me here?"
"Mickey Sullivan is a two-bit street thug who collects interest for the Moretti syndicate," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave into pure malice. "He doesn't write notes like this. And he certainly doesn't leave dead men at my south gate."
Vincent walked slowly toward me. Each step was deliberate. When he reached me, he didn't pull out a gun. Instead, he reached out a long, leather-gloved hand and gently cupped the back of Luca’s head.
Luca stirred, burying his face deeper into my neck. "Mama," he whimpered softly in his sleep.
May you like
Vincent looked down at his son, then raised his dark eyes to mine. The rage was still there, but beneath it was something far more dangerous: an icy, absolute resolve.
"You aren't leaving this house, Ruby Anne Jenkins," Vincent said quietly. "Not because I’m keeping you prisoner. But because whatever game your mother was part of, it just collided with mine. And outside those gates, you are already dead."
