Chapter 6
Then looked at her.
“No.”
“It’s Thursday.”
Sadie tightened both hands around her mug.
“I visit my mother every Thursday.”
“Hawthorne Care Facility.”
“If I don’t go, she becomes agitated.”
Then:
“The staff won’t know how to calm her.”
“The staff at Hawthorne are currently being compensated very well to keep your mother calm.”
Sadie froze.
“What did you do?”
Callum approached the island.
He removed a folded sheet of heavy paper and slid it toward her.
Sadie picked it up.
A receipt from Hawthorne.
Balance: $0.
Below it was another line.
Private 24-hour registered nurse.
Paid in full.
5 years.
Sadie stared.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Callum met her eyes.
“There are 2 men sitting in an unmarked car across the street.”
“The director believes they’re private security supplied by an anonymous donor.”
Then:
“Your mother is fine.”
“She is safe.”
“She’s a civilian.”
Sadie slammed the paper onto the marble.
“She has Alzheimer’s.”
“You can’t buy my family.”
The anger that had been building for 3 days finally overtook the fear.
Sadie no longer felt like an employee.
She felt like property.
Another asset whose life Callum was reorganizing the way he rearranged accounts and warehouses.
He did not react to the outburst.
He placed both hands against the marble.
“The O’Bannions know your name.”
His voice remained controlled.
“Declan is cornered.”
“He lost the dock contract.”
“2 enforcers.”
Then:
“He knows I’m destroying his supply lines.”
Callum leaned closer.
“If you leave, you don’t just put yourself at risk.”
“You put your mother at risk.”
“So what?”
Frustrated tears burned Sadie’s eyes.
“I stay here forever?”
“I eat your food.”
“Wear your clothes.”
“Wait while you fight a war?”
She looked at him.
“I have a job.”
“A life.”
“Your life is paused.”
“Who gave you the right?”
Sadie demanded.
“The men who cut your leg open.”
Callum shouted.
The sound shattered the penthouse.
Sadie flinched and stepped backward.
Pain shot through her ankle.
She caught the counter to avoid falling.
Callum saw the reaction.
His anger disappeared almost instantly.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he breathed slowly and came around the island.
He stopped inches from her.
Bourbon.
Rain.
The permanent metallic suggestion of blood.
“I’m not keeping you here to punish you.”
His voice had become quiet.
“I’m keeping you here because if anything happens to you…”
He held her eyes.
“…I will burn this entire city down.”
Then, with bleak practicality:
“And I don’t have time to deal with the ashes.”
He lifted a hand.
For 1 second, Sadie expected him to touch her face.
Instead, he adjusted the collar of the oversized sweater.
His rough knuckles brushed her collarbone.
A shiver moved through her.
“There’s a dress in the guest closet.”
Callum stepped away.
“Delivered this morning.”
Then:
“Put it on.”
“We leave at 8:00.”
“Where?”
“The auction.”
He turned toward the hallway.
“You authenticated the Caravaggio.”
Then:
“You’re going to help me sell it.”
The dress was armor.
Emerald silk.
High neckline.
Long sleeves.
The fabric followed the shape of Sadie’s body while the hem concealed the orthopedic boot.
When Sadie looked into the mirror, the quiet academic who wore practical cardigans and took the Red Line had disappeared.
A different woman looked back.
One who seemed to belong inside Callum’s world.
Sadie applied dark red lipstick with trembling hands.
When she entered the living room, Callum was waiting in a black bespoke tuxedo.
He looked like inherited wealth.
And inherited violence.
He turned.
For a fraction of a second, his breath caught.
Then his face settled into approval.
“Can you walk?”
“I can.”
Sadie leaned on a black carbon-fiber cane Dr. Evans had delivered earlier.
“I just can’t run.”
“You won’t have to.”
Callum offered his arm.
“Hold onto me.”
The auction took place inside the private gallery of the Continental Art Society, a limestone building in the Gold Coast.
Bankers.
Technology billionaires.
Politicians.
And men like Callum, whose suits concealed different forms of power.
The air smelled of champagne, rare orchids, and corruption kept quiet by expensive surroundings.
When Callum entered with Sadie, conversations stopped.
He did not bring women to business events.
Now he appeared with a woman in emerald silk, carrying a cane and looking directly at everyone staring.
“Head up.”
Callum leaned slightly toward her.
“Smile.”
Then:
“Let them see you.”
“Why?”
Sadie asked.
“Because they think I’m weak.”
His expression did not change.
“They believe someone touched something of mine and I hid the damage.”
Then:
“I don’t hide.”
They reached the display containing the Caravaggio sketch beneath museum lighting.
Sadie felt the crowd watching.
Then she saw the only face that mattered.
Declan O’Bannion.
Late 50s.
Thinning reddish hair.
A face shaped by whiskey and strain.
His eyes found Callum.
Then moved immediately toward Sadie’s cane.
A small ugly smile appeared.
Callum felt her body tighten against his arm.
His free hand closed over hers.
“Don’t move.”
His voice was nearly inaudible.
“Don’t speak unless I tell you.”
Declan stopped approximately 3 feet away.
He studied Sadie instead of Callum.
“Evening, Callum.”
His Chicago brogue was rough.
“I see you brought a plus-one.”
Then he smiled at Sadie.
“Looks like she had a rough week.”
“Nasty fall on the ice?”
Callum’s face revealed nothing human.
“She’s recovering.”
Then:
“The men responsible won’t be.”
He watched Declan.
“I heard they had a swimming accident near Navy Pier.”
Declan’s smile vanished.
The jaw tightened.
“The river is dangerous this time of year.”
“It is.”
Callum agreed.
“Especially for bottom feeders.”
The tension between them felt physical.
Declan finally looked toward the Caravaggio.
“Nice paper.”
His contempt returned.
“I heard the provenance documents disappeared.”
He suggested that perhaps the sketch was a forgery Callum intended to sell in order to cover losses at the dockyards.
It was a test.
Declan was trying to determine whether the papers his men stole had actually been recovered.
Callum opened his mouth.
Sadie spoke first.
“It’s an authentic late-16th-century study.”
Her voice carried clearly.
Both men turned.
Callum tightened his grip in warning.
Sadie ignored it.
She removed her arm from his and moved slightly forward, using the cane.
Then she looked Declan directly in the eyes.
“The ink is an iron-gall mixture consistent with Roman workshops in 1599.”
Her academic voice had replaced fear.
“The paper bears the watermark of a Fabriano mill that burned in 1601.”
Then:
“The cross-hatching in the clavicle shadow is a distinctive marker of the artist’s manic, unrefined study period.”
Sadie smiled without warmth.
“The provenance documents are locked in Mr. Russo’s private vault.”
“Fully intact.”
She paused.
“But even without them, a child could recognize the stroke work.”
Her gray eyes stayed on Declan.
“Unless you lack the education to do so, Mr. O’Bannion.”
Silence swallowed the space around them.
Declan’s face turned red.
He had expected a frightened woman carrying visible evidence of his men’s violence.
Instead, she humiliated him publicly.
He moved half a step toward her.
“You arrogant little—”
Callum shifted.
Nothing dramatic.
Only his body moving between Sadie and Declan.
Yet the promise of violence in the movement forced the older man backward.
“Finish the sentence.”
Callum’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“I dare you.”
May you like
Declan saw what waited behind Callum’s eyes.
He swallowed.
