Chapter 1 - THE EVICTION NOTICE
Faith looked at me for three full seconds before answering.
“Eight hundred forty-six dollars.”
Her voice was steady.
Too steady.
The kind people used when they had practiced the number in their heads until it stopped feeling like panic.
I glanced at the folded paper inside her coat pocket.
“By Friday.”
“Yes.”
“What happens if you don’t pay?”
“You heard me.”
“You sleep in your car.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Gable shifted in the hallway.
Carmine stared at the broken porcelain.
Nobody seemed sure whether they were allowed to remain.
“Everyone out,” I said.
Mrs. Gable frowned.
“Dominic—”
“Out.”
She left.
Carmine followed after one long look at Faith.
The guards disappeared too.
The door closed.
Faith remained on the floor with a sponge in one hand.
I looked at her.
“You’re afraid of me paying it.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She went back to cleaning.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s my rent.”
“I know.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“With what?”
Her hand stopped again.
I watched the anger arrive.
It was useful.
Anger makes people careless.
“My paycheck.”
“You’ve worked here two days.”
“Then I’ll work more.”
“The landlord gave you until Friday.”
“I can count.”
“Not fast enough.”
She stood.
The sponge landed in the bucket harder than necessary.
“You ask personal questions for someone who throws breakfast at walls.”
“I ask whatever I want in my house.”
“That must be exhausting.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead I wheeled closer.
“Who are you hiding from?”
Her face changed.
There.
Not much.
Enough.
“I’m not hiding.”
“You came here with eleven dollars and an eviction notice. You need money badly enough to tolerate me. Yet the moment I offer to solve the exact problem you say brought you here, you panic.”
“I didn’t panic.”
“Your pulse is visible in your neck.”
She covered it reflexively.
I raised one eyebrow.
Faith looked furious.
“Maybe I don’t like owing people.”
“I did not say it would be a loan.”
“That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“Because free money is never free.”
I stared at her.
That sounded learned.
Not philosophical.
Learned.
“Who taught you that?”
“No one.”
Another lie.
Her first bad one.
I leaned back.
“Fine.”
She looked suspicious.
“Fine?”
“You don’t want the money. I won’t give it.”
Something in her shoulders loosened.
That told me more than a confession would have.
“But.”
There it was.
She glared.
“You people love that word.”
“You will tell Mrs. Gable the landlord’s name.”
“No.”
“Faith.”
“No.”
I felt my temper rise.
Then my right leg spasmed again.
Pain tore through my thigh.
Not as violent as before.
Still enough to steal my breath.
Faith moved immediately.
I held up one hand.
“Don’t.”
She froze.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she respected the boundary.
That surprised me more than her refusal earlier.
“Breathe,” she said from three feet away.
I almost told her to go to hell.
Instead I inhaled.
Slow.
The spasm passed faster.
Faith watched my face.
“Again.”
I breathed again.
I hated that she was right.
I hated that she knew what to do.
When it stopped, I asked:
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That breathing would help.”
She looked toward the window.
“My dad had nerve pain.”
“What kind?”
“Back injury.”
“What did he do?”
“Construction.”
“Is he alive?”
Her expression closed.
“No.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“Cause?”
She looked at me.
“You really don’t stop.”
“No.”
“Heart attack.”
I believed that.
Mostly.
She picked up the bucket.
“I’m done here.”
“Faith.”
She stopped.
“Tomorrow morning, no oatmeal.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“What?”
“I dislike it.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Noted.”
“And coffee.”
“Yes.”
“Black.”
“I know.”
She left.
I sat alone in the room for twelve minutes thinking about a woman who had just won two arguments she should not have been allowed to start.
Then Carmine entered.
He did not knock.
That privilege belonged to very few people.
“You like her.”
“No.”
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You almost did.”
“That is not legally a smile.”
He leaned against the doorframe.
Carmine Bell had been my father’s driver before becoming mine.
Fifty-one.
Gray at the temples.
Scar across his left palm from an old knife fight he pretended never happened.
He knew me too well.
“That leg moved.”
“It spasmed.”
“That is movement.”
“It is pain.”
“It is still movement.”
I turned toward the window.
Six months earlier, doctors told me there was a chance.
Not certainty.
Chance.
Spinal bruising.
Nerve interruption.
Inflammation.
Recovery could take months.
Or never happen.
I stopped asking after the third specialist used the phrase “manage expectations.”
Carmine did not stop.
“Call Patel.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“No.”
“You felt pain in a leg you said was dead.”
“I did not say dead.”
“You act like it is.”
I looked at him.
“Leave.”
He did not.
“Faith’s background check is clean.”
I stilled.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Mrs. Gable did.”
“What did she find?”
“Twenty-four. Medical assistant certification expired two years ago. Worked at a rehab clinic in Cicero, then a grocery store, then home care. Father dead. Mother gone. One younger brother.”
“Gone how?”
“Mother disappeared when Faith was sixteen.”
I looked at him.
“Disappeared?”
“Left.”
“Same thing?”
“Depends who you ask.”
“Brother?”
“Twenty-one. Name is Jonah Willis.”
“Where?”
Carmine’s face changed.
That was why he had come in.
“County jail.”
I stared.
“For what?”
“Possession with intent. Firearm charge.”
Faith had not mentioned a brother.
“Bond?”
“No bond. Trial pending.”
“Gang?”
“Maybe.”
“Which?”
Carmine hesitated.
“South River Crew.”
My blood cooled.
The South River Crew used to run small distribution near Calumet.
Six months ago, two of their shooters had been identified near the route where my convoy was hit.
Not charged.
Identified.
That changed everything.
“Faith’s brother is connected to the crew that attacked me.”
“Possibly.”
“Did she know?”
“Probably.”
“Did Mrs. Gable?”
“No.”
“How did Faith get this job?”
“Agency referral.”
“Which agency?”
“Harbor Home Care.”
“Who owns it?”
“We’re checking.”
I stared at the hallway where Faith had disappeared.
My pain.
Her hands.
Her fear when I asked about money.
Her brother.
The attack.
Nothing was coincidence anymore.
“Bring her back.”
Carmine frowned.
“Now?”
“Now.”
Faith returned five minutes later.
She had changed out of her work apron.
Her cheap coat was already on.
She looked at Carmine.
Then me.
“What happened?”
I held up a printed sheet.
Her face went white before I said the name.
“Jonah.”
Silence.
I wheeled closer.
“Your brother.”
She did not move.
“He is in Cook County Jail.”
“Yes.”
“For charges tied to South River.”
Her chin lifted.
“He is charged. Not convicted.”
“Was he part of the crew that hit my convoy?”
“No.”
Fast.
Certain.
“You know that.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because I know where he was.”
“Where?”
She hesitated.
“Faith.”
“With me.”
“When?”
“The night of your attack.”
“Doing what?”
She closed her eyes.
“Bleeding.”
The room went still.
Carmine stepped closer.
“From what?”
“Gunshot.”
My attention sharpened.
“Where?”
“Shoulder.”
“Who shot him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you call police?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Because my brother was carrying a gun.”
Carmine’s jaw tightened.
“South River?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“He was working security.”
“For?”
Faith looked at me.
This time fear returned.
Not of the question.
Of the answer.
“Your father’s old company.”
I felt cold.
“My father has been dead twelve years.”
“I know.”
“What company?”
“Mason Freight.”
My father’s original logistics company had been sold ten years ago.
Parts absorbed.
Parts closed.
One shell remained in old records.
“What did Jonah do there?”
“Night security.”
“That company has no active warehouses.”
“One does.”
Carmine and I looked at each other.
“Where?” I asked.
Faith shook her head.
“You don’t know?”
“I know exactly where.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
My anger surged.
“You came into my house knowing your brother worked at a secret Mason warehouse.”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to believe that is unrelated to my attack?”
“No.”
I stopped.
“What?”
She looked straight at me.
“I think it is related.”
Silence.
Carmine swore under his breath.
Faith continued.
“Jonah was shot the same night your convoy was hit because he saw something at that warehouse.”
“What?”
“He would not tell me.”
“Convenient.”
“He was terrified.”
“Of me?”
She looked at me.
“At first.”
“And now?”
“Now I think he was afraid of someone who wanted you dead.”
My hands tightened on the wheelchair.
“What did he see?”
“He gave me something.”
Of course.
“What?”
Faith reached inside her coat.
Carmine’s hand moved toward his weapon.
She froze.
“It’s paper.”
“Slow,” he said.
She pulled out a folded receipt.
Old.
Grease-stained.
I almost laughed.
Then she handed it to me.
Warehouse transfer manifest.
Mason Freight header.
Six months old.
Three pallets listed as industrial electrical equipment.
Destination:
CARTER FOUNDATION REHABILITATION CENTER.
My chest tightened.
That center had funded my post-accident therapy for three months.
A nonprofit.
My nonprofit.
“What is this?”
Faith’s voice lowered.
“Jonah said those pallets were not electrical equipment.”
“What were they?”
“He said guns.”
Carmine went still.
I stared at Faith.
“Someone moved weapons through my old company into my rehab center.”
“Yes.”
“The same week I was attacked.”
“Yes.”
“Why keep this for six months?”
“Because Jonah told me to.”
“Why take this job?”
Her eyes filled.
Finally.
There it was.
The truth.
“Because two weeks ago, someone came to my apartment.”
My chest tightened.
“Who?”
“A man I had never seen.”
“What did he want?”
“The receipt.”
“How did he know you had it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you do?”
“I lied.”
“And?”
“He said if I wanted Jonah to live long enough to make trial, I should stop asking questions.”
Carmine cursed.
Faith continued.
“The next day, Harbor Home Care called and offered me this job.”
Everything became still.
“You did not apply?”
“I did.”
“Before the threat?”
“No.”
I stared.
“You applied after.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the agency had posted the job that morning.”
“You thought someone was pulling you toward me.”
“Yes.”
“So you came anyway.”
Her voice shook.
“Because if the people threatening Jonah wanted me inside your house, I needed to know why.”
I could barely believe what I was hearing.
“You walked into a crime boss’s mansion to investigate the people threatening your brother.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
Carmine barked a laugh before stopping himself.
I ignored him.
“Who hired you?”
“Mrs. Gable interviewed me.”
“Who sent your file?”
“Harbor.”
Carmine’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked at me.
“We found the owner.”
“Who?”
“Harbor Home Care is held through an LLC.”
“Name.”
“Gable Family Services.”
The room went silent.
Faith looked toward the door.
My house manager.
Mrs. Gable.
The woman who had worked for me since before the accident.
The woman who warned Faith nobody lasted more than three days.
The woman who had just brought a stranger tied to my attack directly into my house.
Then footsteps approached.
Mrs. Gable appeared in the doorway.
She looked at the paper in my hand.
Then at Faith.
Then at Carmine.
And for the first time in twenty years, I saw fear on her face.
May you like
“Dominic,” she said quietly.
“You were not supposed to find that yet.”
