Chapter 3 - Shadows on Michigan Avenue
By 6:00 PM, Clare’s shift was over.
She changed out of her navy housekeeping uniform in the basement locker room, slipping into her faded blue jeans, a black thermal turtleneck, and a worn canvas coat. She hung her master key card on the board near Mrs. Chen's office window.
"Good work today, Clare," Mrs. Chen called out from behind her desk, without looking up from her spreadsheets. "No complaints from forty-two. You'll take the VIP wing again tomorrow."
Clare stopped mid-stride, her hand hovering over the exit door. "Mrs. Chen... is room 4227 booked long-term?"
Mrs. Chen stopped typing, her glasses slipping down her nose as she looked up. "Suite 4227 isn't on our residential ledger. It's paid for by a private corporate trust out of New York. Cash wire every thirty days. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Clare said quickly, her stomach twisting into a knot. "Just... making sure I don't disturb them."
"Don't worry about 4227. They don't ask for housekeeping. Ever." Mrs. Chen waved her hand dismissively. "See you at seven tomorrow morning."
Clare pushed through the heavy steel door, stepping into the biting cold of the Chicago alleyway behind the hotel.
The air was sharp, smelling of wet asphalt and lake rain. Dusk had settled over the city, turning Michigan Avenue into a river of yellow headlights and neon store displays.
Clare wrapped her coat tightly around her shoulders, walking three blocks toward the Red Line subway station. She kept her head down, her eyes tracking the pavement, her mind racing.
Forget you saw me.
That's what he had said. But how did a girl who made eighteen dollars an hour clean up the mental image of a dead mob boss covered in surgical scars?
As she approached the entrance to the subway station, she felt a subtle shift in her surroundings—a sudden, electric prickle along the back of her neck.
She slowed her pace near a darkened bookstore window, using the reflection in the glass to scan the street behind her.
Fifty feet back, two men in heavy leather jackets were moving through the crowd. They weren't looking at shop windows. They were walking with an even, synchronized stride, their eyes locked firmly on her back.
One of them had a dark tattoo sprawling across the side of his neck—a jagged crow holding an iron coin.
Clare’s blood turned to ice.
She didn't know much about the Chicago underworld, but everyone in the city knew that symbol.
May you like
The Crow's Nest. The mercenary street enforcement arm run by Marcus Duca—Nicholas’s uncle, the man who had seized control of the Duca syndicate after the warehouse fire.
They were following her.
