Chapter 3 - The Weight of Kindness
By eight o'clock that evening, a heavy snowstorm had settled over Chicago, blanketing the city in white and howling against the tall glass panes of my private library.
I was going through shipment ledgers when a soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," I said.
Claire stepped into the room, carrying a silver tray with a bowl of steaming soup and a fresh cup of black coffee. She had changed out of her apron, wearing a simple gray sweater that made her look small, almost fragile, against the vast room.
She set the tray on the edge of my desk, keeping a respectful distance.
"You haven't eaten since noon," she said softly. "Margaret told me you usually forget to eat when you're angry."
I looked down at the steaming tray, then back up at her. "You shouldn't be down here, Claire. Frank Moretti is a dangerous man, and he knows who you are now."
"I'm not afraid of him," she replied simply.
"You should be," I snapped, my tone sharper than I intended. "This isn't a game, Claire. In my world, people who stand too close to me end up broken or dead. I am a crippled mob boss who controls criminals and murderers. I don't get happy endings."
Claire didn't flinch. She stepped closer to my chair, looking down at me with a steady, unyielding gaze.
"You aren't a monster, Adrian," she said quietly. "Monsters don't stay up all night making sure their staff's medical bills are paid under the table. Monsters don't pay off the mortgage on a laundromat so a single mother can keep her apartment."
I froze. "How did you know about that?"
A faint, soft smile touched her lips. "I'm a housekeeper. I dust your safe. I saw the receipts for my landlord's mortgage payoff three weeks ago."
I felt a rare flush of heat creep up my neck. I had tried to do it anonymously through one of my shell companies, unable to bear the thought of her struggling to pay rent while working twelve-hour shifts in my home.
"It was a business expense," I muttered, looking away toward the snow whipping against the window.
"Right. A business expense," she echoed softly. She reached out, her fingers lightly touching my shoulder for just a second—a soft, warm gesture that sent a jolt of electricity straight through my chest. "You spent twenty-two years thinking you destroyed your family, Adrian. But you didn't. Someone else took your father from you. Don't let them take your future, too."
Before I could answer, my desk phone chimed twice—the encrypted internal line from Marco.
May you like
I pressed the speaker button. "Speak."
"Boss," Marco's panicked voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the muffled sound of wind and engine noise. "We've got a problem. Frank didn't wait for the Gold Coast meeting. He just pulled three vans into the lower gate. He’s got twenty guys, Adrian. They cut the security lines!"
