Chapter 8 - NO DEAL
“No.”
Stellan said it before Marek finished speaking.
The video continued.
Marek looked older than Stellan.
Silver hair.
Thin face.
The same gray eyes.
“If you refuse,” he said pleasantly, “Mrs. Thornbury dies at midnight.”
Mrs. Thornbury was crying.
I stepped toward the screen.
“Give him something else.”
Stellan looked at me.
“What?”
“Money.”
“He has money.”
“Territory.”
“This isn’t about territory.”
“Then what does he want with Fern?”
Stellan didn’t answer.
Marek did.
“She’s proof,” he said in the recording. “Proof that the Cross bloodline continues.”
Then he smiled.
“And blood has value.”
The video ended.
I felt sick.
“What does that mean?”
Dominic answered quietly.
“The old families still care about succession.”
“Old families?”
“Cross allies. Business partners. Men who treat criminal organizations like kingdoms.”
I stared at him.
“This is the twenty-first century.”
“Tell them.”
Stellan was already making calls.
I grabbed his arm.
“You’re not handing her over.”
His eyes flashed.
“I would burn Chicago first.”
“Good.”
He paused.
That answer surprised him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t like violence. I don’t like this world. But if someone comes for my child, I’m not going to politely discuss ethics.”
For the first time, Dominic smiled.
“I like her.”
Stellan glared.
“Stop liking her.”
Dominic lifted both hands.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then Stellan said, “We trade me.”
“No.”
Both men looked at me.
“You’re not the only person who gets to say no.”
“Selene—”
“If you die, Fern loses her father one day after finding him.”
His face tightened.
“You’d prefer Thornbury dies?”
“No. I’d prefer we stop behaving exactly how Marek expects.”
Stellan studied me.
“What do you suggest?”
It was strange.
Powerful men had ignored me most of my life.
Doctors.
Landlords.
Managers.
My ex-boss.
Now Stellan Cross was asking my opinion.
“Marek expects a mafia response.”
“And?”
“Give him a maid’s response.”
Dominic frowned.
“What’s a maid’s response?”
“I know how rich houses work.”
I pointed toward the penthouse.
“Service entrances. Laundry deliveries. Cleaning crews. Trash pickups. People like Marek don’t see workers.”
Stellan’s eyes sharpened.
“Because they think they’re invisible.”
“Exactly.”
Three hours later, I was wearing a hotel housekeeping uniform.
Stellan hated the plan.
“No.”
“You already agreed.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You don’t get to.”
“I absolutely do.”
“We traced the video to the old Granton Hotel. Marek’s using three floors. Nobody looks twice at housekeeping.”
“He’ll look at you.”
“He’s never met me.”
“He has photographs.”
“So I wear a wig.”
“No.”
I stepped close.
“Fern is with six guards in a reinforced room.”
“Seven.”
“Seven. You need somebody inside who knows what a service cart looks like.”
“I know what a service cart looks like.”
“You probably think towels fold themselves.”
Dominic coughed to hide a laugh.
Stellan stared at me.
“I hate this.”
“Great. We finally agree on something.”
I entered the Granton Hotel at 11:17 p.m.
Stellan’s men used the loading dock.
Dominic cut cameras.
I pushed a cart toward the third floor.
My hands shook.
Room 314.
Two guards outside.
I kept walking.
One stopped me.
“Hey.”
My heart slammed.
“Yes?”
“What’s in the cart?”
I forced myself to look bored.
“Towels.”
He reached toward the shelf.
Then his phone rang.
Dominic.
The distraction worked.
I moved on.
At the end of the hall, a door opened.
Mrs. Thornbury sat tied inside.
I saw her.
She saw me.
Her eyes widened.
I pressed a finger to my lips.
Then a voice spoke behind me.
“You look exactly like your mother.”
May you like
I turned.
Marek Voss was standing six feet away.
