Chapter 2
Arthur left.
The door closed behind him.
Norah stared at it.
Then at the $500 on her quilt.
Then at the basin of bloody water.
The invisible line that had protected her was gone.
Arthur Costello had shown her what existed beneath the armor.
In doing so, he had tied her to it.
A sharp knock made Norah jump.
“Nora?”
Maria’s cheerful voice came through the door.
“You awake? Second-floor linens need stripping.”
Norah grabbed the bloody towels and buried them deep inside the trash.
She shoved the money into a drawer.
Then she smoothed her uniform.
“Coming.”
Another day inside the Costello estate began.
But while walking toward the stairs, Norah understood something with cold certainty.
Arthur was not finished with her.
Men like him did not casually walk away from the only place where they had allowed themselves to feel safe.
He would come back.
Norah did not know what she would do when he did.
The 3rd-floor beds took hours to strip.
Norah moved through the work mechanically, her hands smelling of industrial lavender and bleach while the previous night repeated endlessly inside her head.
The 3rd floor was the inner sanctum of the Costello organization.
Important conversations occurred behind the heavy study doors.
Orders left that room and changed people’s lives.
Norah tried to convince herself that the night before had been a hallucination.
The 5 $100 bills hidden inside her battered copy of Jane Eyre made that impossible.
At 11:00 a.m., she rolled her cleaning cart toward the study.
Her schedule required her to empty the ashtrays and remove the glasses before afternoon meetings.
She knocked twice.
“Come in.”
Arthur’s voice sent adrenaline through her.
He was normally downtown at that hour, overseeing the family’s legitimate operations.
Norah entered with her eyes lowered.
The study smelled of old leather and expensive cigars.
Arthur sat behind the enormous oak desk.
He was not alone.
Dominic, his cousin and right-hand man, paced beside the windows, striking a folded newspaper against his thigh.
Dominic was sharply dressed, volatile, and known for employing power tools in ways few people wanted described.
“I’m telling you, Arty, the dock unions are getting bold.”
He barely acknowledged Norah.
“They want a larger cut on incoming crates. If we let them push us, the Colombians smell blood.”
Arthur signed manifests with a gold pen.
His sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbows.
Norah approached a side table to collect crystal glasses.
She looked toward his left arm.
The bandage was completely hidden beneath crisp white fabric.
His movements were smooth.
His injured knuckles were concealed by how he held the pen.
No trace remained of the man who had cried on a basement floor.
“We don’t negotiate with the unions,” Arthur said.
His tone was empty.
“Send Jimmy down there. Break the shop steward’s legs. Do it publicly. Make it ugly.”
Dominic stopped pacing.
“Just the legs?”
“Just the legs. He stays alive to tell the story.”
Norah’s hands trembled as she stacked the glasses.
She kept her expression blank.
Then she reached for the ashtray near Arthur’s desk.
Arthur stopped writing.
Suddenly.
Completely.
Dominic fell silent.
Norah froze.
Arthur slowly lifted his eyes.
They met hers.
There was no recognition.
No gratitude.
No shared secret.
Only the stare of a predator assessing movement in its territory.
3 seconds passed.
Then Arthur deliberately adjusted the gold cuff lying on the desk near his injured arm.
“Is there a problem, Dominic?”
His eyes remained on Norah.
“No.”
Dominic appeared confused.
“No problem.”
“Good.”
Arthur finally looked away.
“Finish cleaning and close the door.”
Norah did not breathe properly until she reached the hallway.
She leaned against the wall.
Her pulse beat hard against her throat.
Arthur had not exposed her.
He had done something more precise.
He had shown her that he remembered.
That he was watching.
That whatever existed between them was entirely under his control.
She was no longer invisible.
She was a liability.
Arthur Costello did not leave liabilities unattended.
4 days passed.
Norah worked.
Laundry.
Kitchens.
Guest rooms.
She exchanged duties with Maria to avoid the 3rd floor whenever possible.
She began convincing herself she had exaggerated everything.
Arthur ran a criminal empire.
A drunken breakdown with a housekeeper might already have been buried beneath more important concerns.
Then Friday evening came.
Most of the men had gone to a riverside warehouse for a scheduled shipment.
The estate was unusually quiet.
Norah was alone inside the large walk-in pantry beside the kitchen, counting dry goods.
She reached for a clipboard on the upper shelf.
The pantry door closed behind her.
Then the lock engaged.
Norah turned.
Frankie stood between her and the exit.
He belonged to Dominic’s crew.
Thick neck.
Heavy hands.
Dead eyes.
A smile that never reached them.
He smelled of cheap cologne and cigarettes.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
He moved slowly into the aisle.
“Working late?”
Norah tightened her grip around the pen.
The instincts that had kept her alive inside the estate woke instantly.
Do not show fear.
Do not back down.
“Inventory.”
She lifted her chin.
“I need to finish counting the San Marzano tomatoes. Excuse me.”
Norah moved toward him.
Frankie shifted and blocked the aisle.
“What’s the rush?”
His eyes moved to the open collar of her uniform.
“You’re always running around here like a mouse. I’ve been watching you.”
“I’m paid to clean, Frankie. Not socialize.”
She kept her tone controlled.
“Please move.”
Frankie laughed.
His fingers brushed hair from Norah’s cheek.
She jerked backward so quickly that her shoulders struck the shelving.
“Feisty.”
He moved closer.
“I like that.”
Norah smelled stale smoke on him.
“Boss is gone. Dominic is gone.”
His hand moved toward her waist.
“It’s just us help. How about we take a break?”
Norah drove her knee upward.
The pantry was too narrow.
Frankie blocked it with his thigh.
Then he seized both of her wrists in 1 hand and pinned them against the metal shelving.
His breath touched her neck.
“Don’t make this difficult.”
Norah opened her mouth.
The pantry door slammed open.
The impact sounded like a gunshot.
Frankie stopped moving.
Arthur stood in the doorway.
Black overcoat.
Dark suit.
No weapon visible.
He did not shout.
He was perfectly still.
That stillness was worse.
Violence seemed to enter the pantry ahead of him and remove the oxygen.
Frankie released Norah.
His face lost its color.
“Boss.”
His voice rose unnaturally.
“I didn’t know you were back. We were just—”
“Get out.”
Arthur whispered the words.
Frankie fled.
He kept his head lowered while passing Arthur and disappeared through the kitchen.
Norah rubbed her wrists.
Her breathing came too quickly.
She assumed Arthur would leave.
He did not.
Instead, he closed the pantry door behind him.
The room became painfully small.
Arthur finally looked at her.
Pale face.
Shaking hands.
Shoulders held defensively.
The empty expression he had worn in the study disappeared.
His jaw tightened.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
Norah swallowed.
“I had it handled.”
Something like bitter amusement moved through Arthur’s eyes.
“You were going to handle a 200-pound enforcer with a ballpoint pen?”
“I would’ve stabbed him in the eye.”
Arthur stared at her.
The corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
“I believe you.”
He remained too close.
Norah could smell cold air on his coat, expensive tobacco, and bourbon.
Unlike Frankie’s proximity, Arthur’s did not feel crude.
It felt heavier.
A gravitational force.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Norah lowered her voice.
“Frankie will talk. People will wonder why the boss protected a maid.”
“Let them wonder.”
“He’ll be a problem.”
Arthur’s expression darkened.
“Frankie will not be a problem tomorrow.”
Norah knew exactly what that meant.
“No.”
Her breath caught.
“Not because of me. I don’t want blood on my hands.”
Arthur raised 1 hand.
He did not grab her.
His knuckles moved softly across her cheek, over the place Frankie had touched.
“You already have blood on your hands, Nora.”
His voice was quiet.
“You washed mine.”
Arthur withdrew.
The distance returned instantly.
“Go to your room. Lock the door. Stay there until morning.”
Norah did not argue.
She hurried downstairs.
Once inside her room, she locked the door and slid down against it.
Arthur Costello was no longer simply the danger surrounding her.
He had become the thing she was drowning in.
The next knock came at 7:00 a.m.
Norah was awake.
She had spent most of the night staring at water stains on the ceiling.
This time, she did not freeze.
She recognized the rhythm.
Norah opened the door.
Arthur stood outside.
No blood.
No alcohol.
Completely sober.
He wore dark trousers and a black Henley shirt fitted across his chest. The cuts on his knuckles had faded into yellow-green bruises.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission.
Then he locked the door.
Without bourbon blurring his edges, Arthur felt more dangerous.
Focused.
Contained.
He sat in the wooden desk chair with both elbows on his knees.
Norah remained beside the bed and tightened her cardigan around herself.
“You told me to lock the door and stay inside.”
“Yes.”
“I did.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
Arthur removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
He threw it onto the quilt.
Norah picked it up.
Her stomach dropped.
It was a statement from St. Jude’s Medical Center.
Her father’s debt.
The crushing 6-figure balance created during his treatment for lung cancer before his death 3 years earlier.
The debt the hospital had transferred to Norah.
“Where did you get this?”
Fear immediately became anger.
“Did you search my things?”
“Dominic pulled your file.”
Arthur remained calm.
“Everyone working inside this estate receives a background check. Yours showed a significant debt. I wanted to know what kind of leverage could be used against you.”
“Leverage?”
Norah threw the paper onto the bed.
“I work 80 hours every week to pay that debt. Nobody in your world owns me. You had no right to investigate me.”
“I own the house where you live.”
Arthur’s voice remained unapologetic.
“I have every right.”
“No, you don’t.”
“It’s $240,000.”
Norah went still.
“At your current income, assuming you never eat or buy clothing, you’ll spend approximately 12 years paying it.”
“That is none of your business.”
“It is now.”
Arthur leaned back.
“I paid it.”
Norah stopped breathing.
“What?”
“I paid the balance yesterday.”
He said it almost casually.
“The debt is gone. St. Jude’s will send you a zero-balance statement next week.”
Her legs weakened.
Norah sat heavily on the mattress.
Relief hit first.
So enormous that it almost hurt.
Then terror followed.
In Norah’s experience, charity did not exist.
In Arthur’s world, gifts were never free.
A gift was a chain.
An investment.
A claim.
“Why?”
Her voice broke.
“Why would you do that? Was the $500 not enough to buy my silence?”
“Your silence was never the problem.”
Arthur stood.
He approached.
His trousers brushed against Norah’s knees.
She stared at his shoes rather than his face.
“Then what do you want?”
Her voice trembled.
“I don’t have anything to give you. I’m not a woman from your world. I sell my labor, Mr. Costello. Not my life.”
Arthur lowered himself onto 1 knee.
Norah looked up in shock.
The man who commanded armed crews across Chicago was kneeling on her thrift-store rug so that his face was level with hers.
“I don’t want your labor.”
May you like
He reached out and held her chin.
His calloused fingers were warm.
