Chapter 5
By noon, the Costello estate no longer smelled like a home.
It smelled like bleach, smoke, gun oil, and death.
Norah stood at the top of the grand staircase and watched men carry another black plastic-wrapped body toward the service entrance.
She did not ask whose body it was.
That morning had taught her there were questions whose answers could never be removed from the mind once they entered it.
Three surviving guards were replacing shattered windows with sheets of plywood. Someone had dragged the ruined Persian runner from the foyer, but the marble beneath it still carried dark stains inside the grout.
Dominic's blood was among them.
Arthur had finally allowed a doctor into the estate.
Not a hospital doctor.
Dr. Samuel Rainer had apparently treated Costello gunshot wounds for nearly twenty years and possessed the exhausted expression of a man who had long ago stopped asking how his patients acquired them.
He stitched Arthur's shoulder in the upstairs bedroom while Norah waited outside.
Arthur had objected.
Norah had won.
It was the first argument she had ever won against him.
She suspected it had happened only because he had lost enough blood to make standing difficult.
When Dr. Rainer emerged, he removed his glasses and cleaned them with the corner of his shirt.
"He needs rest."
Norah almost laughed.
Rest.
The Costello organization had lost nearly half its armed men overnight.
Dominic was dead.
Three warehouses had been attacked simultaneously.
The federal government was already asking questions.
And someone had apparently provided the attackers with security information detailed enough to disable the estate's power before the assault.
Arthur was not going to rest.
"How bad?" Norah asked.
"Through-and-through wound. No bone damage. No major artery."
The doctor glanced toward the closed bedroom door.
"He'll live."
That should have relieved her.
Instead, she heard the unspoken remainder.
Assuming nobody kills him first.
Rainer lowered his voice.
"He shouldn't use that arm for several weeks."
"He will."
"I know."
"He shouldn't drink."
"He will."
"I know."
"He shouldn't get shot again."
The doctor finally smiled.
"Do what you can."
Then he left.
Norah entered the bedroom.
Arthur was already out of bed.
Of course he was.
He stood beside the windows wearing black trousers and nothing above the waist except white bandages crossing his shoulder and chest.
His skin was marked with old scars.
Some thin.
Some jagged.
One crossed his ribs beneath the left side of his chest.
Another disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Norah stopped.
Arthur saw her reflection in the glass.
"Doctor leave?"
"Yes."
"He talk too much?"
"He said you're a terrible patient."
Arthur turned.
"That's not medical information."
"He also said you need to rest."
"No."
Norah crossed her arms.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
Arthur's mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then footsteps approached outside.
His expression changed immediately.
The private man disappeared.
The boss returned.
"Come."
Arthur pulled a black shirt from the chair.
Norah took it from him.
"You can't raise that arm."
"I've dressed myself before."
"And today you're going to let someone help."
His eyes narrowed.
Norah held his stare.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Arthur lowered his good arm.
Norah carefully guided the shirt over the injured shoulder.
The intimacy of the action surprised her.
Not kissing.
Not desire.
Something quieter.
She buttoned the shirt from his waist upward.
Arthur watched her fingers.
"You don't have to do this."
"I know."
"You can still leave."
Norah stopped at the final button.
"We already had this conversation."
"You shredded one passport. I can have another delivered before dinner."
"I'll shred that one too."
"Then I'll have another delivered."
"I'll buy a better shredder."
Arthur stared at her.
For the first time since the attack, a genuine sound escaped him.
A short laugh.
It disappeared quickly.
Someone knocked.
"Come in," Arthur said.
A man Norah recognized as Michael DeSanto entered.
He was perhaps forty, lean, silver beginning at his temples.
He had managed Costello financial operations from downtown for years and rarely visited the estate.
Today, there was dried blood on his collar.
"Boss."
Michael's eyes moved briefly toward Norah.
Something changed there.
Not contempt.
Calculation.
Arthur noticed.
"Say it in front of her."
Michael hesitated.
"Arthur—"
"I said say it."
Michael closed the door.
"We have a problem."
Arthur sat in a chair beside the fireplace.
Norah remained standing.
Michael placed a tablet on the table.
"Last night's assault wasn't just retaliation."
"We know."
"They had the gate rotation. Camera placement. Basement access. Backup-generator location."
Arthur's face hardened.
Michael continued.
"They knew the panic room was behind the wine cellar."
Norah felt cold.
Arthur became perfectly still.
"How?"
"That's what I'm trying to determine."
"Who knew?"
"Dominic."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
"Me. You. Frankie. Two members of the old security team."
"Frankie's dead."
"Yes."
"Dominic died defending the foyer."
"Yes."
"The security men?"
"One died last night. One is missing."
Arthur looked toward the windows.
"Name."
"Peter Marcone."
Norah knew him.
Everyone did.
Peter had worked at the estate longer than she had.
Quiet.
Fifty-two.
Married.
Two daughters.
He had once repaired the wheel on Norah's cleaning cart without being asked.
Arthur stood.
Pain crossed his face.
He ignored it.
"Find him."
"Already trying."
"Find his wife."
"House is empty."
"Children?"
"Pulled from school yesterday afternoon."
Silence.
Arthur's expression became frighteningly empty.
Peter had known.
Before the attack.
He had removed his family.
Michael swiped across the tablet.
"There's more."
A photograph appeared.
A black SUV parked near the estate three nights earlier.
Another image.
Peter standing beside it.
Talking to a man.
The second man's face was partially obscured.
Arthur leaned closer.
Norah saw recognition move through him.
"Who is that?" she asked.
Neither answered.
"Arthur."
He looked at her.
"Mateo Salazar."
The name meant nothing to Norah.
Michael explained.
"Salazar controls what's left of the Colombian network on the South Side."
"What do you mean what's left?"
Arthur answered.
"The men who attacked last night weren't the entire organization."
Norah stared at him.
"You said it was over."
"The attack was over."
"You told me they were gone."
"The men inside this house were."
Anger rose through her.
"So there's still a war."
Arthur said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Norah walked toward him.
"You offered me Oregon knowing this wasn't finished."
"I offered you Oregon because it wasn't finished."
"And now?"
Arthur's eyes became hard.
"Now you're going to reconsider."
"No."
"Nora."
"No."
Michael looked between them.
The absurdity of the scene was almost comical.
Arthur Costello, feared across half of Chicago, was losing an argument with a former housekeeper while a criminal war reorganized itself around them.
Arthur finally turned toward Michael.
"Give us the room."
Michael left without argument.
The door closed.
Arthur rounded on Norah.
"This isn't romantic."
"I know."
"This isn't you proving you're brave."
"I know."
"Salazar will come after you if he understands what you are to me."
"I know."
"You don't know."
His voice rose.
"He won't threaten you. He won't scare you. He'll take you somewhere I can't find you and remove pieces until I give him whatever he wants."
Norah's stomach turned.
Arthur immediately regretted the words.
She saw it.
But he did not take them back.
Good.
She did not want lies.
"You wanted me to understand your world," she said quietly. "Now I do."
"No, you understand one night."
"I understand enough."
Arthur stepped closer.
"What exactly do you think staying means?"
Norah looked around the enormous bedroom.
"It means I stop pretending I'm just the maid."
His expression changed.
"Say that again."
"I said I'm done pretending."
Arthur's gaze became unreadable.
Norah continued.
"Everyone already knows you protected me. Dominic knew about the hospital debt. Frankie knew you cared enough to kill over me. Peter probably knew. Salazar may already know."
She moved closer.
"If I leave now, I'm still leverage."
Arthur did not answer.
"Am I wrong?"
"No."
"Then hiding me in Oregon doesn't solve anything."
"It puts distance between you and me."
"Which means what? They'll politely forget I exist?"
Silence.
Norah had her answer.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
"Then teach me."
Arthur frowned.
"What?"
"Teach me how to survive here."
"No."
"Arthur."
"No."
"You taught your men."
"My men chose this."
"So did I."
"You don't know what you're choosing."
Norah stood again.
"I chose when I shredded those documents."
Arthur looked at her for a long time.
Then he crossed to the nightstand.
Opened the drawer.
Removed a handgun.
Norah stopped breathing.
Arthur checked the magazine and chamber.
Then he extended it toward her.
She stared at the weapon.
"Take it."
Her fingers closed around the grip.
It was heavier than she expected.
Cold.
Mechanical.
Real.
Arthur stepped behind her.
His good hand covered hers.
"Finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire."
His chest touched her back.
Norah swallowed.
"Never point it at something you're not willing to destroy."
He adjusted her wrist.
"Don't wave it around because you're frightened. Fear makes people stupid."
Norah looked down at the weapon.
"What if I freeze?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I watched you walk out of hiding with a fireplace poker while two men carried rifles."
Arthur's voice softened near her ear.
"You don't freeze."
Norah remembered the dead guard at the bottom of the basement stairs.
Her stomach tightened.
Arthur felt it.
His hand moved from the gun to her waist.
"You can still hate this."
"I do."
"You can hate me for making you learn it."
"I don't."
"Maybe you should."
Norah turned carefully.
Arthur took the gun from her.
Their faces were inches apart.
"I don't want to become you," she said.
His expression went still.
"Good."
"I don't want killing to become normal."
"It shouldn't."
"I don't want to look at blood and feel nothing."
Arthur's eyes dropped.
"I don't feel nothing."
The admission was almost too quiet to hear.
Norah touched his face.
"I know."
Someone knocked urgently.
Arthur stepped away.
Michael entered again.
This time he did not wait for permission.
"We found Peter's car."
Arthur's posture changed.
"Where?"
"Burned beneath the Calumet Bridge."
"And Peter?"
Michael looked at Norah before answering.
"Inside."
Arthur frowned.
"If Salazar killed him, why?"
"Maybe cleaning up."
"Maybe."
Michael handed Arthur a phone.
"There was something else in the car."
A photograph filled the screen.
Peter's burned vehicle.
On the ground beside it was a white envelope protected inside a clear plastic bag.
Written across the front were two words.
FOR NORA.
Norah's blood turned cold.
Arthur stared at the image.
Every trace of exhaustion vanished.
"Where's the envelope now?"
"Jimmy has it."
"Nobody opens it."
Arthur looked at Norah.
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Salazar knew.
Not only that Arthur had a weakness.
He knew her name.
Twenty minutes later, they gathered in the study.
The damaged door had been temporarily replaced.
Michael stood beside Arthur.
Two armed guards remained outside.
Norah sat across the desk.
The envelope rested between them.
Arthur wore black gloves.
He opened it carefully.
Inside was a single photograph.
Norah.
Walking from a grocery store six months earlier.
Before Arthur had ever knocked on her basement door.
Before the debt had been paid.
Before the kiss.
Before any of it.
Someone had been watching her long before Arthur had noticed her.
On the back, written in black ink, were seven words.
ASK HER WHAT HER FATHER REALLY OWED.
Norah read them twice.
Then a third time.
Her mouth went dry.
"My father?"
Arthur looked at her.
"What did he do?"
"Nothing."
"Nora."
"He was an accountant."
"For who?"
"Small businesses. Restaurants. Construction companies."
Arthur's eyes sharpened.
"Names."
"I don't know all of them."
"Think."
Norah stood.
"My father died of lung cancer. He spent the last year barely able to walk from his bed to the bathroom. Whatever this is, it has nothing to do with him."
Arthur turned the photograph over again.
"Someone started watching you six months ago."
Norah looked at the picture.
Six months.
She had started working at the Costello estate eight months earlier.
The realization came slowly.
"No."
Arthur saw it too.
"What?"
Norah's heart began pounding.
"Two months after I started here."
Michael looked between them.
Arthur's expression hardened.
"Your hiring wasn't random."
Norah remembered the employment agency.
The unexpected salary.
The background interview that had lasted less than fifteen minutes.
The woman who had told her the Costellos specifically needed someone willing to live on-site.
She had thought she had been lucky.
Desperate enough to accept a job nobody else wanted.
Arthur looked at Michael.
"Pull every record from her hiring."
"Already doing it."
"Find the agency recruiter."
"I will."
Norah stared at the photograph.
Her father had been dead three years.
The debt had controlled every decision since.
The estate.
The salary.
The basement room.
Everything had seemed like a series of miserable accidents.
Now someone was suggesting otherwise.
Arthur came around the desk.
He crouched in front of her.
"Nora."
She looked at him.
"What did your father leave you?"
"Nothing."
"Documents?"
"No."
"Storage unit?"
"No."
"Safe-deposit box?"
"I don't know."
Arthur's eyes sharpened.
"What do you mean?"
Norah swallowed.
"After he died, the hospital bills started arriving. Then collection notices. I sold almost everything in his apartment without going through it properly."
"Almost everything."
Norah thought of a battered cardboard box.
Old tax records.
Photographs.
A brass key she had never identified.
She had packed it away because throwing away her father's handwriting had felt too much like killing him a second time.
Her eyes widened.
"I have a box."
"Where?"
"A storage locker."
Arthur stood.
"Where?"
"Lincoln Park."
He turned toward the door.
"We're going."
Michael stepped forward.
"Arthur, you were shot twelve hours ago."
Arthur took his coat.
"Then drive carefully."
Norah rose.
She looked once more at the photograph of herself.
Someone had watched her before she became Arthur Costello's weakness.
Which meant the story had not started when he knocked on her basement door.
It had started years earlier.
May you like
With her father.
And whatever he had carried into his grave.
