Chapter 8 - Debts of Blood and Grace
It took twenty minutes for Wynn’s sobs to subside into the slow, steady breathing of exhausted sleep.
Sullivan remained sitting on the edge of the bed until she was completely still. He pulled the thin wool blanket—and Posy’s star quilt—up to her chin, smoothing the fabric with hands that had ordered the deaths of seven men in forty-eight hours.
Then, he stood up.
He turned toward Hollis.
In the small apartment, he looked impossibly out of scale. His tailored suit was immaculate despite the dampness, his silver cufflinks catching the gray dawn light that was now beginning to seep through the window.
“Where is your daughter?” Sullivan asked.
Hollis kept her chin raised. “Next door. With my neighbor.”
“She gave Wynn this blanket.”
“Yes.”
“And the flower in her hair?”
“Posy thought she needed it to keep the hair out of her eyes.”
Sullivan looked around the room. He took in the peeling walls, the stack of mismatched plates, the pair of worn-out work boots sitting on a sheet of newspaper by the door, and Hollis’s hands—red, cracked, and smelling of soap.
“You carried her three blocks,” Sullivan said. His voice was no longer that of a street boss; it was the voice of a man standing before an incomprehensible miracle. “My men tracked the blood on the snow from the Halloran alley to your entryway. You didn't leave her. You didn't search her pockets for money. You brought her here, gave her your bed, and fed her your food.”
“She was dying,” Hollis said simply.
“People die in this city every day, Mrs. Brennan,” Sullivan said, reading her name from the utility slip tucked beside the sugar tin on the shelf. “Men who owe me millions turn their heads when a child starves on their stoop. You have nothing, and you took in a stranger whose clothes could have drawn a firing squad to your door.”
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound checkbook and a gold pen.
Hollis’s eyes turned cold.
“Put that away,” she said.
Sullivan paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He looked up, his brow furrowed. “I don't think you understand what I’m offering you. I can write a number that will buy this entire building. I can buy the street it stands on.”
“I don't care what you can buy,” Hollis replied, her voice dropping into a dangerous, razor-sharp calm. “I didn't carry that girl because she was worth money. I carried her because she was a human being freezing to death in the trash. If you write a check, you turn what I did into an invoice. You make it look like I saved her for a reward.”
She stepped forward until she was standing two feet from him, looking up into his dark, ruthless eyes without a flicker of hesitation.
“I am a poor woman, Mr. Vane. I scrub floors for seventy cents an hour, and I eat what the office workers leave in their trash bins. But my dignity is not for sale, and my daughter’s kindness is not an item on your ledger. Take your sister home, get a doctor who knows what he’s doing, and leave this room the way you found it.”
Sullivan stared at her.
For the first time in his adult life, Sullivan Vane had encountered someone who could not be bought, could not be terrified, and could not be leveraged.
He looked at the gold pen in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he clicked the cap back into place and slid it back into his pocket alongside the checkbook.
May you like
“You’re right,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”
***
