Chapter 2 - The Shadow over the Table
By four o'clock that afternoon, the rain that had been threatening all morning finally broke over Chicago. Thunder rolled across the lake, driving dark sheets of water against the high leaded glass windows of the Callahan mansion.
Downstairs in the formal dining room, three men sat at a long mahogany table that could seat twenty.
At the head sat Vincent, wearing a dark blue suit, a glass of unopened amber scotch sitting beside his hand. To his left was Mason. To his right sat a man named Sal Moretti.
Moretti was fifty-eight, short, broad-shouldered, with greasy grey hair combed straight back and eyes that moved constantly like a pair of loaded dice. He was the head of the Moretti crew out of Bridgeport—a faction that had shared a tense, bloody truce with the Callahan organization for seven years.
"I’m just saying, Vincent," Moretti rasped, biting into the end of an unlit cigar. "It’s about respect. My boys have been running the dock operations off 95th Street for three years. Then your young guys—that kid Tommy—start telling my drivers that the manifest tax went up five percent?"
Vincent didn't look at Moretti. He was staring at a silver pocket watch lying open on the wood before him. It was 4:12 p.m. Grace usually took the twins through their breathing exercises at four.
"The tax went up because the port authority raised the gate fee, Sal," Mason said calmly from the side. "You know that. Everyone pays it."
"I don't deal with Mason, I deal with the chief," Moretti spat, slamming his fleshy palm onto the table. "Look at you, Vincent! You haven't been seen at the club in three weeks. Word on the street is you're weak. Word is you're spending all your time sitting upstairs in a dark room waiting for—"
CLACK.
The sound was not loud, but it stopped the room cold.
Vincent had set his hand flat on the table. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't lean forward. He simply looked at Sal Moretti.
The air in the dining room seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.
"Finish that sentence, Sal," Vincent whispered.
Moretti’s throat hitches. The cocky, arrogant posture he had carried into the house evaporated, replaced by the sudden, sharp memory of why Vincent Callahan had ruled the South Side for fifteen years without a single serious challenger.
"I... I meant no disrespect, Vincent," Moretti stammered, his fingers twitching against his cigar. "I’m just talking business."
"You are in my house," Vincent said, his voice smooth as silk and cold as ice. "You are sitting fifty feet below where my children sleep. If you speak of them again—if you even think their names while sitting in a car on my street—I will personally dismantle everything you have built since 1995. Do you understand me?"
Moretti swallowed hard, his face turning pale. "Understood, boss."
"Mason," Vincent said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. "Give Sal his five percent back. Then escort him off the property. He won't be returning."
Without waiting for a response, Vincent turned and walked out of the dining room.
As he crossed the grand marble foyer toward the main staircase, he saw Grace coming down from the west wing carrying a laundry basket filled with folded white linens. Her brown hair had completely escaped its pins, falling in soft, damp waves around her neck. She looked tired, her shoulders sloped with exhaustion, but her posture remained straight.
"Mr. Callahan," she said, stopping at the base of the stairs.
Vincent paused on the third step, looking down at her. "Are they asleep?"
"They just drifted off," she said softly. "The rain helped. Noah asked if you would come read the second chapter of the book on his nightstand when they wake up at seven."
Vincent’s eyes softened imperceptibly, then hardened again as his gaze fell on her face. Up close under the foyer chandelier, he could see the dark, purplish bruises of fatigue beneath her eyes.
"You haven't slept since you arrived here three days ago," he noted.
"I sleep fine," she said.
"Eleanor told me you slept on the chair between their beds last night."
"The chair is comfortable."
"You are an employee, Mrs. Miller, not a martyr," Vincent said, his tone turning crisp. "There are sixteen bedrooms in this house. Pick one. If you collapse from exhaustion, you are of no use to my children."
Grace looked up at him, a faint, wry smile touching the corner of her lips. "Is that your idea of a concern, Mr. Callahan?"
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. "It is an order."
Grace set the laundry basket down on the bottom step. She wiped a stray lock of hair from her forehead, her expression growing serious.
"They are getting better, Mr. Callahan," she said softly. "Not because of magic, and not because of me. But because they were lonely. They were surrounded by people who were looking at them like they were already gone. A child knows when the adults around them have given up."
Vincent slowly stepped down off the stairs until he was standing two feet from her. His tall, imposing frame towered over her, but Grace didn't step back.
"I spent two million dollars bringing the best specialists in North America to this house," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "Do not tell me I gave up on my children."
"You gave them medicine, Mr. Callahan," Grace said, her blue eyes clear and unwavering. "You gave them doctors. But you didn't give them yourself."
The silence between them was deafening. Outside, a violent crack of thunder shook the heavy glass doors of the entrance.
Vincent felt a sudden, hot surge of anger in his chest—an anger born of guilt that had been eating at his soul since the day his wife died.
"You know nothing about me," he growled.
"I know what it looks like when a father is afraid," Grace said quietly. "My husband was afraid when Ruby got sick. He couldn't bear to look at her in that hospital bed because he felt helpless. So he stayed in the hallway. He stayed at work. And when she died... he realized he had traded the last month of her life for a hallway."
She reached down, picked up the laundry basket, and held it against her waist.
"Don't stay in the hallway, Mr. Callahan," she whispered. "It's cold out there."
May you like
She turned and walked past him toward the kitchen wing, her soft shoes making no sound against the marble floor.
Vincent stood alone in the grand foyer, the thunder rumbling overhead, feeling as though a small, quiet woman in a wrinkled apron had just stripped away every piece of armor he owned.
