Chapter 2 - The Name in the Shadows
By three that afternoon, Chicago was swallowed by an iron-gray dusk. The snow that had threatened all morning began to fall in heavy, wet flakes, deadening the roar of the elevated train two blocks west.
Hollis walked briskly down 22nd Street, her coat pulled tight across her throat. Her shift at the printing office was canceled due to a frozen boiler, giving her four unpaid hours she could not afford. She carried a paper sack containing three potatoes, a half-pound of lard, and a bottle of camphor oil purchased with the emergency silver dollar she kept tucked inside her shoe lining.
The neighborhood was tense. Even to someone like Hollis, who deliberately kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, the shift in the streets was unmistakable.
Black Lincoln town cars—heavy, four-door sedans with tinted glass and plates registered out of Cook County commercial zones—were parked at three different intersections along the avenue. Men in wool topcoats stood near corner tobacco stands, not smoking, not buying, their eyes sweeping every pedestrian who crossed the street.
As Hollis passed an alleyway near St. Jude’s parish, she heard low, clipped voices.
“...checked the shelters on Cermak. Nothing. Sully’s tearing the docks apart himself. He hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.”
“If the Moretti crew picks her up first, they’ll put her on a meat hook just to make him sign over the shipping manifests.”
“She’s a slip of a girl. How far could she run in twenty-degree weather with no coat?”
“He said bring her back breathing, or don’t come back at all. You know what Sullivan does to men who fail him.”
Hollis didn't slow her pace. She didn't turn her head. She kept her chin tucked into her collar, gripping the paper sack against her ribs until the rough brown paper tore slightly against the potatoes.
*Sully.*
The name Wynn had cried out in her delirium.
Sullivan Vane.
Even a janitor living in the rusted margins of the South Side knew that name. He was the young prince of the River Ward, a man who had inherited his father’s syndicate at twenty-four and consolidated every loading dock, warehouse, and private club from Navy Pier to the calumet marshes within three ruthless years. The newspapers called him a shipping magnate; the beat cops called him Mr. Vane with their caps in their hands; the working poor spoke his name only behind closed doors and in whispers.
Hollis reached her tenement entrance, darted inside, and locked the exterior door behind her. Her heart slammed against her sternum like a trapped bird.
She had carried the most dangerous secret in Chicago up three flights of stairs on her own back.
If Sullivan Vane found Wynn in her room, he might believe Hollis had taken her for ransom. If his rivals found her first, they would turn Door 14 into a slaughterhouse.
She climbed the stairs two at a time, ignoring the burn in her calves. When she unlocked Door 14, she found Mrs. Marguerite sitting by the radiator, knitting needles clicking in the gloom.
Posy was sitting on the floor, using a blunt pencil to draw stars on the margins of old newspaper.
Wynn was awake, propped up against the pillows, her face flushed with fever once more, her gaze fixed entirely on the door.
Hollis dropped the deadbolt, fastened the chain, and leaned against the wood, fighting for breath.
May you like
“They’re on 22nd Street,” Hollis said quietly, looking straight at the girl. “Men in black coats. Looking for a girl without a jacket. Looking for someone belonging to Sullivan Vane.”
***
