Chapter 4 - THE WRONG NUMBER AND THE DEAD HEIR
The blood drained from Clare’s cheeks, leaving her face a stark, translucent white under the hallway sconce light.
Forty-two twenty-seven.
The numbers crashed into her memory like a physical blow. During her orientation three months ago, the floor supervisor had walked them past this specific corner of the forty-second floor, speaking in hushed, nervous tones. The south wing suites are privately owned under corporate trusts, the supervisor had warned. We don't touch them. We don't log them. If a keycard ever opens one of those doors, you back out immediately and notify security.
Clare looked from the black steel of the weapon in his hand to the brutal scars across his chest, and then—for the first time—she truly looked at his face.
The dark wavy hair, the intense slate-gray eyes, the high cheekbones, and the faint, pale scar splitting his left eyebrow.
She had seen this face before. Not in the hotel hallways, and not on the employee roster.
She had seen it on the front page of the Chicago Tribune two years ago, printed beneath a black-and-white headline that had dominated the city for three months: HEIR TO DUCA SYNDICATE PRESUMED DEAD AFTER RIVER SHOOTOUT.
Nicholas Duca.
The younger son of Salvatore Duca—the ruthless patriarch whose criminal organization had controlled the trucking, ports, and construction unions of Northern Illinois for forty years. Nicholas was the prodigal son who had vanished into the freezing black waters of the Chicago River after his armored vehicle was ambushed by rival factions and corrupt state tactical units. Two bodies had been recovered; his had never been found. The city had declared him dead eighteen months ago.
Clare’s knees buckled slightly. She caught herself against the doorframe, her fingers digging into the mahogany trim.
"You're..." she whispered, her voice failing entirely before she could speak the name aloud.
"Don't say it," Nicholas commanded softly, taking half a step forward. The warning was not delivered in anger, but with an icy, urgent gravity that froze the breath in her lungs.
Clare shook her head frantically, tears finally spilling over her lower lashes and tracing hot lines down her pale cheeks. "I won't tell anyone. I swear to God... I swear on my life, Mr. Duca. I don't know anything. I didn't see anything. I just wanted to finish my shift and catch the blue line home. I have three months left on my rent probation..."
Nicholas stared at her, watching the desperate, unvarnished honesty pouring from her mouth. He reached out with his left hand, stepping to the door, and turned the brass deadbolt with a soft, metallic click.
He pulled the heavy door open three inches, letting a narrow sliver of the cold, bright marble hallway cut through the dim foyer.
"You’re going to leave," Nicholas said, his voice dropping into a chilling, hypnotic calm that commanded absolute obedience. "You’re going to pick up that tablet, walk down to forty-two seventeen, finish your shift, clock out at six, go home to your apartment, and forget you ever saw me."
Clare blinked through her tears, stunned by the sudden offer of survival. "You’re... you’re letting me go?"
May you like
Nicholas looked down at the scarred knuckles of his left hand, then turned his gaze back to her eyes, his expression dark and hollow.
"If they know you saw me," Nicholas said quietly, "they won't just kill you. They will take three days to do it. So go... and let them think I’m dead."
