Chapter 2 - The Warmth of Blackwood Tower
The private elevator rose silently toward the seventy-fifth floor—the penthouse suite of Blackwood Tower.
Marcus carried four-year-old Jonah, who was so exhausted and cold that he didn't even wake when wrapped in Marcus’s heavy wool overcoat. Pearl walked beside Julian, her small boots squeaking against the polished marble floor of the elevator. She refused to hold Julian's hand, but she kept her shoulder pressed against his tailored trouser leg, deriving whatever strength she could from his towering presence.
Julian looked down at her. Her lips were blue, her hands raw and cracked from the frost. Yet, she held her head high, watching the digital floor indicator tick upward.
"Your name is Pearl," Julian said as the doors slid open into a sprawling, firelit room.
"Yes, sir," she said, her voice small.
"And the boy?"
"Jonah. He's four."
The penthouse was vast, minimalist, and warmed by a massive double-sided stone fireplace. Expensive Persian rugs covered dark hardwood floors, and glass walls offered a panoramic view of the snowstorm raging over Detroit.
Julian gestured toward the deep leather sofa near the fire. "Put the boy down there, Marcus. Call Dr. Harrison. Tell him I need a pediatric checkup immediately. Then bring warm towels, soup, and dry clothes from the guest quarters."
"Right away, Boss."
Julian knelt in front of the sofa as Marcus laid Jonah down. Pearl immediately sat beside her brother, pulling his small, cold hands into her lap and rubbing them vigorously to bring back the blood flow.
Julian watched her intently. "When was the last time you ate, Pearl?"
"Yesterday morning," she replied truthfully. "Mom had two bagels left. She gave one to me and one to Jonah."
"Where is your mother?"
Pearl’s hands stilled over Jonah's fingers. She swallowed hard, staring at the roaring fire. "Three days ago... two men came to our apartment. They didn't knock. They kicked the lock off. Mom hid us in the laundry chute behind the hall closet. She told us to stay quiet no matter what we heard."
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits of dark, focused anger. "What did you hear?"
"Shouting," Pearl whispered, a single tear finally escaping her eye and tracing a clean line through the soot on her cheek. "A man with a loud voice said she owed money to 'The Valenti Syndicate.' Mom told them she didn't have it. Then... there was a loud bang. And everything went quiet."
Julian’s breath caught in his chest. The Valenti Syndicate. Don Carmine Valenti was the last remaining remnant of the old mob that ruled the south docks—the same outfit responsible for the arson seven years ago.
"How did you get here?" Julian asked softly.
"Mom left an envelope in the laundry chute with fifty dollars and a piece of paper with this address," Pearl said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a crumpled index card. "We stayed in the chute until night. Then we walked to the bus station. A lady helped us buy a ticket downtown. We've been looking for this tower all day."
Julian stared at the index card. On it, in Naomi’s hurried, elegant handwriting, were the words: Blackwood Tower. Tell him I paid his debt.
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Julian leaned back on his heels, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He looked at the fragile, brave little girl who had dragged her brother across a freezing city through sheer willpower.
"Your mother was a very smart woman, Pearl," Julian said quietly, his voice dropping into a solemn vow. "And she was right. I don't break my debts."
