Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Cermak
By noon, the penthouse had become the nerve center of a quiet, terrifying hunt.
Natalie was sitting at the massive kitchen island, wearing a brand-new, thick cream-colored sweater and small leather boots that didn't have cardboard inside them. She was eating a bowl of warm chicken soup, her movements slow and careful, as if she still couldn't believe the food wouldn't disappear if she took too long.
Levi sat at the end of the counter, a glass of dark whiskey untouched beside his hand. He was watching a security feed on a secondary monitor.
“Natalie,” Levi said gently, his voice dropping to that quiet, rare register he used only with her. “The men you saw last night. Did either of them have a limp? A ring? Anything you can remember?”
Natalie chewed slowly, her brow furrowing as she looked back into the memory her mother had taught her to keep.
“The tall one,” she said, setting her spoon down. “The one with the glass tube. He had a silver watch with a blue face. It didn't tick. It had a little white moon that moved across the top.”
Sal looked up from his tablet instantly. “A Patek Philippe Nautilus Moonphase. There are only five registered in the state of Chicago.”
“And the other one?” Levi asked.
“The other one was shorter,” Natalie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He had a smell. Like old peppermint and mint tobacco. The kind my grandpa used to chew. And when he laughed, his voice sounded like... like dry leaves rubbing together.”
Levi’s hand tightened around his glass until the crystal groaned under the pressure. Old peppermint and dry leaves.
It wasn't a stranger. It was Dr. Harold Whitmore’s personal assistant and head pharmacist, a man named Marcus Vance, who had been with the family practice for twenty-five years.
“Sal,” Levi said, his voice dropping into a register that made Claire shiver from across the room. “Bring Marcus Vance to the warehouse on the docks. Don't use the regular crew. Take the Iron Gate team.”
“And Whitmore?” Sal asked.
“Whitmore is a creature of habit,” Levi said, standing up and pulling his suit jacket over his broad shoulders. “He thinks like a doctor, not a soldier. When a doctor’s operation fails, he goes back to his records to see what went wrong. He’s at his private cabin in Lake Geneva. He thinks he’s safe there because the deed is under a shell corporation.”
He walked over to Natalie, stopping beside her high stool. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy silver coin—an old Mediterranean token his father had given him before the war. He placed it gently in her small palm.
“You did a brave thing today, Natalie,” Levi said, his gray-blue eyes tracking hers with absolute gravity. “You reminded me that there are still things in this city worth fighting for. Stay here with your mother. No one can touch you in this tower.”
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Natalie looked at the coin, then up at his scarred face. “Are you going to hurt the doctor?”
Levi didn't lie to her. He didn't give her the comfortable reassurances adults usually gave children. “The doctor killed my father, Natalie. And he tried to take my life. In my world, when you take a Marconi’s blood, you pay with your own.”
