Chapter 4 - The Reckoning
The storm outside Oak Lawn was fierce, lightning illuminating the sprawling manicured lawns and high stone walls of the Costello estate.
Inside the grand formal dining room, the crystal chandelier cast a warm, glittering light over a table built to seat twenty people.
At seven-fifty-five, the heavy double doors opened.
Beatrice Hayes walked in.
She had made an effort. She wore a simple, knee-length black dress that hugged her broad curves, her dark curly hair pinned back neatly with silver clips, a light touch of clear gloss on her lips. She looked formidable—a woman who belonged in a castle, even if her hands still bore the faint traces of white flour beneath her fingernails.
Vincent stood near the fireplace, dressed in a sharp navy three-piece suit, leaning slightly on his silver cane. When he saw her, his heart gave a sudden, powerful thud against his ribs that had nothing to do with pain or blood loss.
"Beatrice," he said, stepping forward.
Bee stopped three feet away, her hazel eyes scanning the room, taking in the mahogany paneling, the antique oil paintings, the silver candelabras.
"Nice place you have here, Costello," she said, her voice dry. "A little dramatic, but I guess that fits the brand."
"Thank you for coming," Vincent said smoothly, gesturing toward the head of the long table. "Please. Sit."
"I didn't come for dinner, Vincent," Bee said, her arms crossing over her chest in her familiar, protective stance. "Frankie said you found Tommy."
Vincent’s smile vanished. The room temperature seemed to drop instantly.
He turned toward the side door near the butler’s pantry and gave a brief nod.
Frankie pushed the door open.
Two guards escorted a young man into the dining room. Tommy Sullivan was twenty-eight years old, skinny, pale, with hollow cheeks and terrified, bloodshot eyes that darted wildly around the luxurious room before landing on his half sister.
"Bee?" Tommy squeaked out, his voice cracking with pure terror. "Bee! Oh God, Bee, help me! They took me out of the motel—I thought they were going to kill me!"
Bee turned slowly to face her half brother.
She didn't run to him. She didn't embrace him. She stood frozen, her face turning into a mask of cold, agonizing grief that ripped through Vincent’s chest like a blade.
"Tommy," Bee said, her voice dropping into a flat, terrifying whisper.
"Bee, please!" Tommy sobbed, dropping to his knees on the Persian rug, his hands shaking as he held them up in supplication. "Tell them! Tell Mr. Costello I didn't mean for any of it to happen! I was stupid! I got into deep with Foley’s guys! I didn't know they’d go to the house! I didn't know Artie would fall down the stairs!"
"Shut up," Bee whispered.
"Bee, please—"
"I SAID SHUT UP!" Bee roared.
The sound echoed through the vast dining room, shattering the quiet like a cannon shot.
Tommy flinched, burying his face in his hands, trembling like a beaten dog.
Bee walked toward him, her heavy footsteps slow and deliberate. She stopped right above him, looking down at the brother who had destroyed their family’s life for forty thousand dollars of gambling debt.
"Artie will never walk again, Tommy," Bee said, tears finally overflowing her hazel eyes, running down her flushed cheeks, but her voice remained steady as steel. "He was twenty-two. He had a scholarship to Michigan State. He was going to be an architect. And you ran. You ran to Indiana and hid in a cheap motel while I worked eighteen hours a day to keep him from being thrown out of his care facility."
"I was scared, Bee..." Tommy wept. "Foley said he’d break my legs..."
"I don't care," Bee said softly. "You left Artie."
She turned around and faced Vincent Costello.
Vincent stood by the fireplace, his face unreadable, his hand resting on the head of his cane.
"He's your prisoner, Beatrice," Vincent said, his deep voice filling the heavy silence. "The Costello family held a debt against him. I am transferring that debt to you. His life, his freedom, his punishment—it is entirely in your hands. If you want him sent to prison, I will provide the evidence to the federal prosecutor tomorrow. If you want him gone from Chicago forever, Frankie will put him on a bus to California with fifty dollars in his pocket and a promise that if he ever sets foot in Illinois again, he won't walk back out."
Bee looked at her half brother, kneeling on the rug, weeping for his own skin.
Then she looked at Vincent—the man who commanded an army of killers, yet had placed the ultimate power of justice entirely into her hands.
"Send him to California," Bee said quietly. "Give him fifty dollars. And tell him that if he ever calls me, if he ever writes to Artie, or if he ever comes back to this city... I will give Foley his address myself."
Tommy gasped, looking up at her with eyes full of utter disbelief. "Bee... no... please..."
"Take him away, Frankie," Vincent commanded quietly.
Frankie and the guards grabbed Tommy by the elbows, lifting him off his knees and dragging him out through the side doors, his desperate pleas fading down the long, carpeted corridor until the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, leaving total silence in their wake.
Bee stood in the center of the vast dining room, her shoulders trembling slightly as she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her large hand.
Vincent walked over to her.
He didn't offer a handkerchief. He didn't offer empty words of sympathy.
He reached out, his broad, warm hand taking hers—clasping her thick, flour-calloused fingers in his own, holding her with a solid, unyielding strength that grounded her in the swirling storm of her own pain.
"You're a remarkable woman, Beatrice Hayes," Vincent whispered.
Bee looked up into his dark eyes, feeling the heat of his hand radiating through her skin, filling a cold, empty place inside her chest that had been frozen for three long years.
"I’m just tired, Vincent," she choked out.
May you like
"Then let me take the weight for a while," he said gently. "Sit with me. Eat dinner. And let me protect you."
For the first time since she had thrown a Zippo lighter into a toxic chemical puddle, Beatrice Hayes let out a long breath, nodded her head, and allowed herself to be taken care of.
