Chapter 3 - The Iron Gates of Lake Forest
The drive north along the Sheridan Road was silent. Marcus, the same driver who had navigated the city’s dark underbelly for Ethan’s father before him, kept the big black Escalade at a steady, law-abiding forty-five miles per hour. The rain had turned into a wet, heavy snow that stuck to the black branches of the old oaks lining the lakefront estates.
Lily was buckled into a temporary car seat that Marcus had somehow procured from the corporate security office within ten minutes of Ethan’s phone call. She was playing with a silver Callahan Global ballpoint pen, her dark eyes wide as she watched the wipers clear the glass. She didn't understand the weight of the men sitting in the front seats, or why her mother’s fingers were dug so deeply into the leather upholstery that the stitching was beginning to stretch.
"Ethan," I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the snow tires. "If your mother... if she did something... why would she hide him from me? I didn't even know his real name. I was just a temp in the billing department. I didn't even have a permanent badge when I met him at that diner near the yard."
Ethan didn't look back at me. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw locked so tight the muscle near his ear was twitching rhythmically. "The Callahan name doesn't mix with the west side, Clara. My grandfather left an estate that is tied up in a three-generational land trust. If any member of the third generation—meaning me, Caleb, or our sister Julianne—has a child out of wedlock with someone who isn't approved by the trust’s board of executors, their share of the development pool is automatically redistributed to the other branches."
I felt the air leave my lungs in a short, sharp gasp. "The money."
"It’s not just money," Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave, turning rough like gravel under a boot. "It’s forty-two percent of the commercial lakefront properties between here and Milwaukee. It’s roughly four hundred million dollars in capital allocations. If Caleb married you, or if he acknowledged a child outside the parameters of the 1992 amendment, his entire share would have reverted to my uncle's sons in New York. My mother spent thirty years ensuring that didn't happen."
The Escalade slowed down, turning left through a pair of massive, scrolled iron gates that bore the initials C.V.—Callahan Vista. The house itself was a sprawling, stone-faced Tudor manor that sat on five acres of pristine bluff overlooking the black, churning waters of Lake Michigan. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress designed to keep the wind from changing the position of the furniture.
Marcus parked the car directly under the stone portico. He didn't get out to open the door; he knew Ethan’s mood too well.
"Stay with the girl, Marcus," Ethan said, his hand already on the door latch.
"Ethan," Marcus said, his eyes meeting his boss’s in the rearview mirror. "Your mother has the security detail from the North Shore precinct on the grounds. If you're going to do this, don't do it in the hallway."
"I’ll do it wherever she’s standing," Ethan said, stepping out into the freezing slush.
I unbuckled Lily, pulling her against my chest. Her small winter coat was thin—a twenty-dollar target special that looked out of place against the limestone pillars of the Callahan estate. She buried her face in my neck, her small hands freezing against my skin as I followed Ethan up the wide stone steps.
The front door was opened by a butler who looked older than the house itself. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Ethan’s face, then drifted down to me and the child in my arms. He didn't ask for our coats. He simply stepped back, his head bowing slightly.
May you like
"She’s in the morning room, Mr. Ethan," the old man whispered. "She has the lawyers from the trust committee with her."
"Good," Ethan said, his boots leaving dark, wet prints on the Aubusson rug as he strode toward the double mahogany doors at the end of the long gallery. "They can take notes."
