Chapter 6 - Sullivan Vane Arrives
Sullivan entered the tiny tenement apartment. His presence seemed to consume all the available oxygen. The room, which usually felt merely humble to Hollis, suddenly looked painfully destitute—the peeling floral wallpaper, the single burner on the counter, the small clothesline strung across the corner with Posy’s patched socks.
He ignored all of it.
He crossed the floor in three long strides, dropped to both knees beside the low cot, and buried his face in the star-covered fleece at Wynn’s hip.
He didn't speak. His broad shoulders heaved once, twice, in silence.
Wynn let out a broken cry, reached out with both hands, and buried her fingers into his thick, damp hair.
“Sully,” she sobbed. “Sully, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You idiot,” he whispered into the blanket, his voice cracking violently. “You absolute, reckless little idiot. I thought you were in the river. I thought Moretti had you. I tore the floorboards out of three warehouses on 12th Street looking for your shoes.”
He lifted his head, his hands coming up to cup her fever-hot face with an astonishing, terrifying gentleness. His thumbs wiped away her tears.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his jaw clenching. “You’re sick. You’re burning up. Why did you run? Why didn't you come to my office? Who took you out of the house?”
“No one took me,” Wynn cried softly. “I walked out. Sully, I found the papers.”
Sullivan stopped. His hands remained on her cheeks, but his eyes narrowed. “What papers?”
Wynn reached under her pillow, pulled out the crumpled note Hollis had brought in from the alley, and held it out with a hand that shook uncontrollably.
Sullivan took it. He unfolded the stiff, creased paper beneath the gray ambient light of the room.
*Not of the same blood.*
He looked at the words. He didn't look surprised.
He simply looked tired—infinitely, profoundly tired.
“Corcoran gave this to you,” Sullivan stated, not asking.
“He had the hospital records, Sully,” Wynn pleaded, her voice rising in panic. “He had Father’s handwriting! I’m not a Vane. My mother was a servant. Father only kept me because he felt guilty! I don't belong to the family. I don't belong to you! If the other syndicates find out, they’ll say you’re harboring an outsider—they’ll challenge your right to the docks—”
“Wynn,” Sullivan said.
“—and if they kidnapped me, you would give them everything to get me back, and you shouldn't! You shouldn't die for someone who isn't even your sister!”
“*Wynn.*”
His voice wasn't loud, but it had the weight of iron falling on stone.
May you like
She fell silent, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her pale neck.
***
