Chapter 6 - The Steel and the Harbor
By October, the Chicago winter was already hinting at its arrival, the wind coming off the lake sharp and smelling of dead fish and heavy diesel. The South Harbor development project was a forest of exposed rebar and gray concrete pillars, rising like teeth from the black water of the river mouth.
I stood on the second-floor gantry of the main terminal building, wearing a white hardhat and a heavy canvas work jacket over my charcoal trousers. In my hand, a digital tablet displayed the daily pouring schedule for the eastern retaining wall.
"The structural engineers finished the core tests on the lower levels, Director Parker," a voice said beside me.
Marcus Vance walked out onto the gantry, his long dark coat open against the wind, a set of blueprint rolls under his arm. He had spent the last two months attending every city council meeting with me, using his family’s immense political weight to protect my receivership from the local developers who wanted to carve up the Sterling assets for pennies.
"And?" I asked, not looking up from the screen.
"The concrete is solid," Marcus said, leaning his forearms against the iron railing. "Julian Sterling was skimming the financial margins, but the actual construction firm he hired was old-school. They poured it right. If we get the roof on the main terminal before the first hard freeze, we can start the interior retail leasing by February."
"Good," I said, finally locking the screen and looking out at the cranes. "The city council approved the zoning variance for the public market on the ground floor. We have thirty local vendors signed up already. No corporate chains. No luxury boutiques. Just real businesses from the South Side and the west loops."
Marcus looked at me, his dark eyes catching the cold gray light of the water. "You’ve changed this project, Harper. Julian wanted to build a fortress for the one percent—a private marina where people could park their hundred-foot yachts and never have to see the city. You’re building a harbor."
"The city has enough fortresses, Marcus," I said, my fingers adjusting the chin strap of my hardhat. "They’re too expensive to maintain, and the foundations always rot when the people inside stop looking out the windows."
"Your father called my office again yesterday," Marcus said softly, his tone shifting into that quiet, careful rhythm he reserved for my family history. "He’s working at that firm in Rockford. He wanted to know if you were attending the winter hospitality convention in Detroit next month."
"I have a harbor to pour, Marcus," I said, turning to walk back toward the construction office. "I don't have time for conventions."
"He sounded old, Harper," Marcus said behind me.
May you like
I stopped at the heavy iron door, my hand on the handle. I thought of the kitchen shears in the dark. I thought of the way my mom had crossed her arms while I stood there in my pajamas with my blood freezing.
"Old isn't an excuse for being cruel, Marcus," I said, opening the door into the warm, loud space of the blueprint room. "It’s just an excuse for getting caught."
