Chapter 2 - The House Beyond the Gates
The convoy drove north for nearly an hour.
Delaney sat beside Mrs. Bianchi in the second SUV while Frank rode in front.
No one spoke for the first twenty minutes.
The old woman—Teresa, Frank finally told her—held Delaney's hand beneath a fur blanket as if letting go might send her back into the alley.
Delaney watched Chicago thin into darkness.
Streetlights became farther apart.
Storefronts disappeared.
The lake flashed black between trees.
Then iron gates appeared.
They opened before the vehicles stopped.
Beyond them, a long drive curved through snow-heavy evergreens toward a greystone mansion glowing gold against the night.
Delaney stared.
"People live here?"
Frank looked back.
"Some do."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I have."
The mansion was beautiful in the same way museums were beautiful.
Perfect.
Expensive.
A little cold.
Men in dark suits waited beneath the covered entrance.
A woman in medical scrubs rushed forward as soon as the door opened.
"Mrs. Bianchi."
Teresa's grip tightened.
"No hospital."
"Not a hospital," Frank said. "Dr. Moretti is coming here."
The nurse reached for Teresa.
She pulled back.
"Delaney."
"I'm right here."
"You come."
Delaney looked at Frank.
He nodded.
So the waitress from Bellucci's walked into one of the most guarded homes in Lake Forest wearing wet work shoes and no coat.
Nobody stopped her.
Inside, the floors were black-and-white marble.
Paintings lined the hall.
Fresh flowers stood in arrangements larger than Delaney's kitchen table.
A chandelier above the main staircase probably cost more than her apartment building.
Teresa noticed her looking.
"Too much."
Delaney blinked.
"What?"
"The chandelier."
"You said it, not me."
Teresa smiled.
For the next hour, doctors examined her in a private sitting room.
Mild hypothermia.
Dehydration.
Possible medication-related confusion.
No major injury.
Delaney waited outside with Frank.
She should have been afraid.
Instead, exhaustion began winning.
She leaned against the wall.
Frank offered coffee.
"Is it poisoned?"
"No."
"Then yes."
He brought it himself.
That surprised her.
"You work for her?"
"For the family."
"Doing what?"
"Whatever keeps the doors standing."
"That's extremely vague."
"Occupational habit."
Delaney drank.
"Where is Damon?"
Frank's gaze shifted.
"On his way."
Something in his tone made her sit straighter.
"Should I be worried?"
Frank considered.
"Do you frighten easily?"
"Depends. Cockroaches? Yes. Rich men with security teams? Apparently not."
This time he smiled.
The doctor eventually cleared Teresa to rest.
She refused to go upstairs until Delaney promised not to leave without saying goodbye.
"I promise."
Only when Teresa disappeared with the nurse did Frank lead Delaney to a smaller drawing room.
A fire burned.
Someone had placed a dry coat over a chair.
A woman's coat.
Her size.
Delaney stared.
"You people move quickly."
"We practice."
"That is not reassuring either."
Frank handed her an envelope.
She did not take it.
"What's that?"
"Transportation. Lost wages. Gratitude."
"How much?"
"Enough."
"No."
"Miss Whitfield."
"I gave a freezing woman soup."
"You also prevented a medical emergency from becoming worse."
"So buy me a new bowl."
Frank's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Most people would open the envelope."
"Most people aren't eleven thousand dollars in debt and still smart enough to know when money comes with strings."
That got his attention.
"Debt?"
Delaney cursed herself silently.
"Forget it."
Frank did not.
Before he could ask more, the room changed.
No sound announced it.
No one spoke.
Yet Frank straightened.
A man stood in the doorway.
Tall.
Black suit.
Black shirt open at the throat.
Dark hair damp from snow.
He looked about thirty-six.
Maybe thirty-eight.
His face was handsome in the severe way old statues were handsome, all angles and controlled expression.
A small scar crossed one eyebrow.
Delaney recognized him immediately.
Damon Bianchi.
The name behind half the stories Chicago pretended not to know.
He looked at Frank first.
"Where is she?"
"Upstairs. Stable."
Damon exhaled.
Only once.
Then his eyes moved to Delaney.
Cold.
Assessing.
"You're the waitress."
Delaney hated the way it sounded.
"Delaney."
His gaze dropped to her wet shoes, then the borrowed coat, then her hands.
"Frank says you found my mother."
"Behind the restaurant."
"In the alley."
"Yes."
"What were you doing there?"
"Taking out trash. It's one of the glamorous parts of hospitality."
Frank looked toward the fire to hide something that might have been amusement.
Damon did not smile.
"Why didn't you call police?"
"I was going to call a hospital."
"My mother doesn't carry identification when she walks?"
"She had no purse."
"Jewelry?"
"A ring."
"You saw it."
"Eventually."
"And still brought her inside."
Delaney stared.
"What should I have done? Auctioned her?"
Frank coughed.
Damon's eyes sharpened.
Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth moved.
Not a smile.
Almost.
"People have done worse for less."
"I'm sorry about your social circle."
Silence.
Frank looked genuinely delighted now.
Damon entered the room fully.
"My mother has Alzheimer's."
The sentence stripped the air.
Delaney's attitude softened immediately.
"I'm sorry."
"It's early. Some days are clear. Some aren't. Tonight she left during a medication change."
"How?"
"We're finding out."
"You didn't know she was gone?"
His jaw tightened.
"For thirty-seven minutes."
Delaney understood then.
The guns.
The convoy.
The suspicion.
Not excusable.
Understandable.
"She kept saying you'd come."
Damon looked toward the ceiling as if he could see through it.
"I always do."
The way he said it made Delaney think of her own mother.
All the nights she had promised to return with better test results.
All the mornings she could not.
Damon looked back.
"Frank offered compensation."
"I declined."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to owe you."
His expression cooled.
"That's usually not how payment works."
"In my life it is."
Damon studied her for a long moment.
Then he said, "Fine."
Delaney blinked.
"Fine?"
"No envelope."
"Thank you."
"You'll still be driven home."
"I can take the train."
"No."
"That sounded like a threat."
"It was weather advice."
Frank finally laughed.
Damon ignored him.
At the door, Delaney stopped.
"Your mother needs something."
Damon's expression changed instantly.
"What?"
"Not medical."
She hesitated.
"She was scared when she couldn't remember your name. Don't correct her too fast when that happens."
His face became unreadable.
"My mom did chemo," Delaney said. "Different reason. Same fear. Sometimes being right makes people more frightened."
For the first time, Damon looked at her without evaluating her.
He simply listened.
Then he nodded.
"Good night, Delaney."
She left.
At seven the next morning, she woke to pounding on her apartment door.
Her first thought was landlord.
Her second was collections.
Her third was that Mrs. Bianchi had gotten worse.
She opened the door.
Frank stood there.
"No guns," Delaney said.
"Progress."
"What happened?"
"Mrs. Bianchi is asking for you."
"I have work."
"I know."
He handed her a folded newspaper.
On the front page was a business photograph of Damon Bianchi beside an article about Bianchi Logistics acquiring a port-services company.
Delaney frowned.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because your restaurant manager called us at six-thirty."
Her stomach dropped.
"Why?"
"Three men came in asking about you."
"Police?"
"No."
"Your people?"
"No."
May you like
Frank's expression lost all warmth.
"Which means someone else knows you found Mrs. Bianchi."
