Chapter 8 - The Ledger of the Living
The winter came early to Cook County that year.
By the first week of December, the Chicago River was running with gray, jagged slush that clattered against the limestone pilings of the Kinzie Street bridge like broken glass. The city was wrapped in a continuous, freezing shroud of lake-effect snow that muted the sound of the traffic on the expressways into a soft, distant hum.
Inside the penthouse above The Iron Spire, the four-foot fireplace roared with thick logs of seasoned hickory, throwing long, amber ribbons of light across the dark walnut floorboards.
Brin sat at the heavy drafting table near the window, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater and gray wool slacks. Her reading glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, her fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard of her terminal as she reviewed the fourth-quarter revenue projections for the newly restructured River North district.
Her rib had healed into a solid, painless knot of bone beneath her skin. The eight silk stitches had been removed two weeks ago, leaving behind only a thin, silver line above her left eyebrow that looked more like an intentional brushstroke than a scar.
Across the room, the double doors clicked open.
Sharon Callaway walked in, carrying a tray with two porcelain mugs of peppermint tea and a plate of warm gingerbread cookies she had baked in the third-floor kitchen.
She was wearing a thick flannel dressing gown over her slacks, her color completely restored, her skin pink and healthy beneath her silver hair. The cellular trial in Evanston had produced a clinical miracle: her CA-125 tumor markers had dropped by eighty-eight percent in three weeks, her scans showing the primary peritoneal lesions shrinking into tiny, calcified ghosts.
“You’re still staring at numbers, Brinny,” Sharon chided gently, setting the tray on the corner of the drafting table. “The man gives you an office the size of a train station, and you sit up here in the draft.”
Brin smiled, taking off her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “The numbers don't balance themselves, Mom. If I don't catch the fuel variances in the western yards, the rail union will short the pension fund by thirty grand on Friday.”
Sharon reached out, her warm, calloused fingers smoothing the collar of Brin’s sweater, her eyes soft with that ancient, maternal wisdom that had survived thirty years of factory life.
“He’s a good man, Brin,” Sharon whispered.
Brin paused, looking down at the steam rising from her tea. “He’s a dangerous man, Mom. You know what he does.”
“I know what he does for this city,” Sharon said softly. “And I know how he looks at you when he thinks you’re reading your spreadsheets.”
The front door of the penthouse opened with a heavy, oiled click.
Lucian stepped into the foyer. He was covered in a dusting of fine white snow, his long wool coat dark with moisture, his dark hair swept back from his temples by the winter wind.
Marco followed behind him, carrying two heavy leather briefcases before setting them down by the umbrella stand and retreating back down the stairs with a respectful nod.
Lucian walked into the library, his boots making no sound on the rugs. He stopped beside the table, leaned down, and kissed Sharon’s cheek with that same, effortless familial grace that had won her over in the hospital ward.
“How was the afternoon walk, Mrs. Callaway?” Lucian asked, his voice warm.
“Too cold for an old woman from Queens, Lucian,” Sharon laughed, picking up her empty tray. “I’m going down to watch the news. Don't let her work past seven—she hasn't eaten since noon.”
She patted his arm and slipped out of the room, letting the heavy oak doors swing shut behind her.
Lucian turned to Brin.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small, rectangular piece of stiff blue cardboard, and laid it flat on the terminal keyboard.
Brin looked down.
It was an official deed of title, issued by the Cook County Recorder of Deeds, transferring the three-flat apartment building on 18th Street—the building Mercer’s men had torched three weeks ago—into the name of Sharon Callaway.
Beneath the title was a reconstruction permit, stamped with the seal of the city architectural department, authorizing a four-hundred-thousand-dollar total renovation into three luxury private suites.
“You rebuilt it,” Brin whispered, her fingers tracing the embossed seal.
“I didn't rebuild it,” Lucian said, stepping behind her chair, his hands resting on her shoulders, his thumbs working gently into the tight muscles of her neck. “The construction crews from Local 150 rebuilt it. They finished the drywall this afternoon. Your mother’s new kitchen has two ovens and a terrace overlooking the garden.”
Brin leaned her head back against his chest, closing her eyes as the warmth of his body seeped through her cashmere sweater.
May you like
“You’re trying to buy my balance sheet, Mr. Devo,” she murmured.
“Your balance sheet is non-negotiable, Brin,” he whispered, his lips brushing the faint silver scar above her eyebrow. “I’m just making sure the assets stay in the family.”
