Chapter 4 - The Ghost From Chicago
The name Chicago hit Julian like a physical blow to the chest. The room seemed to spin, the expensive floral wallpaper blurring into streaks of crimson and gold. Fifteen years ago, the catastrophic fire at the Vance Industrial Complex had been ruled an unfortunate electrical accident, a tragedy that claimed three lives and allowed Julian to collect the insurance payout that funded his current empire. Or so the official reports had stated. Only one other person knew the absolute truth—a truth Julian had buried beneath millions of dollars in hush money and non-disclosure agreements.
His phone buzzed again, breaking his paralysis. The screen displayed a new text message containing a precise set of GPS coordinates and a single command: Come alone, or the next fire will start in this nursery.
Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked over at the bed where Lily was sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling in a steady, innocent rhythm. He couldn't risk her safety. Whoever was orchestrating this sadistic game knew about Chicago, knew about the party, and possessed the means to bypass his state-of-the-art security system without tripping a single alarm.
Without waking Sarah again, Julian stepped out of the nursery, locked the door from the outside, and strode toward the private elevator at the end of the hall. He descended directly to the subterranean garage, where his black luxury sedan sat bathed in the amber glow of motion-activated security lights.
As he approached the vehicle, the garage doors suddenly began to grind upward, sliding open automatically without his key fob. Julian’s hand dropped instinctively to the heavy iron tire iron resting on a nearby workbench, his muscles tensing for an ambush.
A sleek, black motorcycle roared into the garage from the dark driveway outside, cutting its engine with a sharp whine. The rider killed the headlight, plunging the subterranean space into shadow. Slowly, the figure swung a booted leg over the saddle, reached up, and removed a matte-black helmet.
Long, blonde hair tumbled down over the shoulders of a dark leather riding jacket. It wasn't an assassin. It was Victoria.
She leaned against the side of her motorcycle, a cigarette already lit between her fingers, blowing a thin plume of grey smoke into the damp air. She looked at Julian with an expression that mixed cold amusement with profound warning.
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"Going somewhere, Julian?" Victoria asked, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of the shock that had gripped the party upstairs. "You won't find the answers at those coordinates. But you might find an empty grave."
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