Chapter 4 - THE PRICE OF SURVIVAL
The silence in the cramped apartment was heavy, broken only by the hiss of the radiator and Elena’s shallow breathing.
I stood up slowly, turning to face Beatrice, who looked up at me with eyes full of a mother’s desperate defiance.
“You were our head cook at the Oak Street estate,” I said, my voice dead flat, though my mind was racing at a million miles an hour. “When the house burned down twelve years ago, you were listed among the missing staff. The insurance company paid out your death benefit.”
Beatrice wiped her eyes with her apron, letting out a bitter, exhausted laugh. “Death benefits? Mr. Vale, your father’s enemies didn't care about insurance payouts. They wanted your entire family wiped off the map. That night of the fire... it wasn't an accident.”
I turned sharply back to her. “Explain.”
“It was an inside job,” Beatrice said, her voice steadying as the truth poured out. “One of your father’s capos—Marcus Thorne—wanted the northern shipping lanes. He ordered the hit on the estate. I was in the basement pantry when the men broke in. I heard them talking. They had orders to kill everyone—including little Elena.”
Elena clutched the quilt tighter, staring down at her lap.
“I smuggled her out through the coal chute,” Beatrice continued, looking directly into my eyes. “I took her to my sister’s place in rural Indiana. We changed our names, we lived in the shadows, and we prayed every single day that nobody would ever find us. But a year ago... Elena got sick. Kidney failure. The kind of medical care she needed costs a fortune we never had.”
“So you came back to Chicago,” I realized, the pieces clicking together with terrifying clarity.
“I had nowhere else to turn,” Beatrice whispered. “I needed work. I knew your security protocols were airtight, so I applied under a maiden name using forged papers to work in your mansion. I figured if I was going to steal anything to keep her alive, it might as well be the food from the house that was stolen from us in the first place.”
I looked back down at Elena. Her breathing had grown shallow, and beads of cold sweat dotted her forehead. The ravages of untreated illness were written across her pale skin.
“Lorenzo,” I said, not turning around.
“Boss?” Lorenzo replied instantly, stepping forward from the doorway, his usual cynicism completely replaced by a grim, sobering realization.
“Call Dr. Althaus. Tell him to prep the private VIP wing at St. Jude’s Memorial immediately. Bring our top renal specialists. If any doctor in this city tells me they can’t save my sister, I’ll throw them off the roof.”
“On it, boss,” Lorenzo said, pulling out his encrypted satellite phone without a second hesitation. He looked at Beatrice and Elena, then gave me a firm nod. “Consider it done.”
Elena reached out, grabbing my hand with surprising strength. “Vince... Marcus Thorne is still out there. He’s the one who runs the port authority now. If he finds out I’m alive—if he finds out you know—he’ll come for us.”
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A cold, lethal fury settled deep into my bones. The grief I had carried for twelve years instantly crystallized into pure, unadulterated vengeance.
“Let him come,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “He’s had twelve years too long.”
