Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Brownstone
The memory of the night I drove Maya away hit me with the sickening clarity of a flashback.
It had been pouring rain. The windows of my Lincoln Navigator rattled against the wind as I parked outside my townhouse in the Gold Coast. Inside, Maya had been sitting at the kitchen island, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, looking smaller than she actually was.
I had just come from a sit-down with my grandfather’s inner circle. A rival syndicate out of Cicero had sent a warning—a bloody message left on the hood of my car. They couldn't touch me directly, so they targeted what they thought was my weak spot. They had tracked Maya’s movements. They knew where she bought her groceries. They knew her favorite bakery.
I panicked.
Instead of protecting her like a man, I acted like a Vale. I built a wall out of ice and cruelty.
"Pack your bags," I had told her, standing over her in the kitchen, my jaw locked to keep my voice from breaking. "I’m transferring two million dollars into an untraceable account. You leave tonight. You change your name, your number, and you never look back."
"Adrian, what are you talking about?" she had cried, standing up, her green eyes wide with terror and confusion. "Is this because of your family? We can leave together—"
"There is no 'together'!" I had shouted, slamming my hand against the marble counter. "You think I want to live like this? Looking over my shoulder every second of the day? You're a liability, Maya! You're a civilian, and you don't belong in my world!"
It was a lie. Every word of it was a calculated, protective lie meant to drive her away so she wouldn't end up in a pine box.
She had looked at me then—not with fear, but with a quiet, devastating disappointment that had haunted me every single night for the next four years. She didn't scream. She didn't fight. She just packed a single suitcase, walked out the front door into the pouring rain, and vanished from my life entirely.
And now, sprinting across Michigan Avenue against a flashing Don't Walk sign, dodging a blaring yellow taxi that clipped my shoulder with a sharp thump, I realized the horrifying truth:
She hadn't just run away from my world.
She had carried my children out of it, completely alone.
Screeech!
A city bus slammed on its brakes, the air brakes hissing loudly as I dove across the hood of a parked sedan and hit the sidewalk on the other side. My lungs burned. My tailored suit jacket tore at the seam under my arm.
I scanned the crowded pavement outside the Art Institute.
There.
Ten yards ahead, struggling to lift a heavy, overloaded stroller up the stone steps toward the museum entrance. Maya’s breath came in ragged gasps, her shoulders hunched as she fought the weight of three toddlers while desperate tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Maya!" I shouted over the roar of the city traffic.
She froze.
Her hands tightened on the stroller handle so hard her knuckles turned stark white. For a second, she looked like she wanted to keep running, but her legs gave out just a fraction. She turned around slowly, her green eyes blazing with a mixture of terror, exhaustion, and fierce, protective fury.
I reached the bottom of the steps, stopping five feet away from her, breathing heavily, my hair slicked with sweat.
May you like
The three children sat inside the stroller, staring up at me with wide, identical gray-green eyes. The little boy on the left—the one who had been lining up toy cars—slowly lowered his hands, tilting his head at the exact same angle I always did when I was evaluating a hostile asset.
"Adrian," Maya whispered, her voice shaking violently. "Leave us alone."
