Chapter 10 - The Gilded Cage
Z
Five years is a long time to live inside a gilded cage, even one of your own design. The penthouse had expanded into a sprawling, multi-level fortress in the sky, adorned with priceless art, private chefs, and security protocols that rivaled a military installation. Ava was no longer the helpless infant I had carried through the blizzard. She was a fiercely intelligent, dark-haired five-year-old with a penchant for classical piano and a complete obliviousness to the rivers of blood that funded her extravagant lifestyle. To her, Reed was 'Uncle Callaway,' the stern but endlessly indulgent man who bought her ponies and read her bedtime stories. To the rest of Chicago, he was the undisputed king of the underworld, and I was his terrifying right hand.
Our partnership was a masterpiece of lethal efficiency. Reed handled the violence, the enforcement, the brutal realities of keeping rival syndicates at bay. I handled the ledger. Over five years, I had laundered millions, bought off city aldermen, and expanded our legitimate businesses to cover our illicit tracks perfectly. I wore designer suits tailored sharp enough to cut glass, my hair always perfectly styled, my heart locked away in a titanium vault. The trauma of Dante’s betrayal had cured me of the disease of trust. The only things I loved in this world were Ava and the intoxicating, protective blanket of absolute power.
It was mid-November when the illusion of our absolute safety shattered. The Callaway Foundation—our pristine, philanthropic front—was hosting a lavish charity gala at the Field Museum. The massive hall was filled with the city's elite: senators, hedge fund managers, and socialites, all sipping champagne beneath the towering skeleton of a T-Rex. Ava was upstairs in the VIP lounge, guarded by three of our best men. Reed and I were working the floor, exchanging polite, venomous smiles with politicians we actively blackmailed. I was wearing a floor-length emerald gown, a diamond necklace resting against my collarbone, and a custom-made derringer strapped to my thigh beneath the silk.
"The Mayor is sweating," Reed murmured, stepping close to me as we pretended to admire a display of ancient pottery. He looked immaculate in a black tuxedo, though he still walked with a slight limp from a bullet he took three years ago. "He knows the zoning permits for the docks need to be approved by midnight, or the photos of him in Vegas go to the press."
"Let him sweat," I replied smoothly, taking a sip of champagne. "Fear is a better motivator than bribery. He'll sign the papers."
Before Reed could reply, the lights in the main hall flickered and plunged into total darkness. The elegant string quartet screeched to a halt. A collective gasp rose from the crowd of billionaires and politicians, followed by the terrifying, chaotic sound of shattering glass and heavy boots hitting the marble floor. My blood ran completely cold. This wasn't a power outage. This was a tactical strike.
"Ava," I breathed, dropping my champagne glass.
"Go!" Reed roared, drawing a weapon from his tuxedo jacket just as the emergency lights flared, bathing the museum in a sickly red glow. Men in tactical gear, their faces obscured by black balaclavas, were pouring through the shattered glass doors of the main entrance, raising automatic weapons. Panic erupted. Screaming socialites trampled each other in a desperate bid for the exits. Gunfire shattered the acoustics of the grand hall, tearing through the priceless exhibits.
I didn't run toward the exit. I hiked up my silk gown, ripped off my high heels, and sprinted barefoot up the grand marble staircase toward the VIP lounge. Two men in tactical gear spotted me, swinging their rifles in my direction. Before they could fire, Reed stepped into their line of sight, unleashing a barrage of suppressing fire that dropped them both to the floor.
"Get to the girl!" Reed shouted, reloading with terrifying speed as he backed into the cover of a massive marble pillar. "I'll hold the stairs!"
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I didn't look back. I reached the landing, my lungs burning, adrenaline flooding my veins. The heavy oak doors to the VIP lounge were splintered. The three guards we had stationed outside were dead on the floor in pools of expanding red. A primal, horrifying scream tore from my throat. I drew the derringer from my thigh holster, kicking the broken doors open and stepping into the room, ready to kill anything that moved.
Standing in the center of the room was a massive man with a jagged scar across his throat, holding Ava by the arm. She was crying, fighting against his grip with tiny, fierce fists. The man looked up at me, a cruel, mocking smile visible in his eyes. He didn't speak English. He spoke Russian. And I knew instantly that the Volkov family had finally found us.
