Chapter 3 - The Cage
In the master suite of the O'Shea estate, glass shattered against the hand-carved mahogany mantelpiece.
Declan O'Shea breathed heavily, his chest heaving under his black silk shirt as he pulled his arm back from the momentum of throwing a crystal decanter. The amber scotch dripped down the stone fireplace, soaking into the antique rug beneath his wheelchair.
"Where is she?" his voice was a low, guttural rasp, dark as thunder.
Across the room, Fiona stood with her back against the double doors, her hands crossed tightly over her chest. Standing near the window was Liam Vance, Declan’s second-in-command—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his collarbone, his face entirely unreadable.
"She left, Declan," Fiona said smoothly, though the slight twitch in her right eye betrayed her nerves. "She took her severance and she left. She realized this wasn't the place for two young children. I helped her see reason."
Declan’s hands gripped the leather armrests of his custom power chair so hard the metal frame groaned under the pressure. His gray eyes, usually as cold and impenetrable as winter ice, were blazing with a terrifying, wild energy that neither Fiona nor Liam had seen since before the shooting in South Boston eighteen months ago.
"You lied to her," Declan growled, leaning forward. His legs were motionless under his dark trousers, but the upper body strength that had made him a legend in the docks of Irish Town was fully present. "You waited until I was under sedation. You brought armed men into my kitchen and you threatened a woman who was under my protection."
"She was a nurse, Declan!" Fiona snapped, her composure cracking. "A broke, desperate widow with a mountain of debt and a mother in hospice! She was leeching off you! Do you have any idea what people are saying in the Outfit? They're saying the head of the O'Shea family is being managed by a temp-agency maid and two toddlers! You're weak, Declan! Ever since those bullets hit your spine, you've lost your edge, and now you're letting some charity case turn this house into a daycare!"
Declan didn't yell. He didn't throw another glass.
Instead, he went entirely still. The sudden silence in the room was far more dangerous than the breaking crystal.
He turned his chair slowly until he was facing Liam.
"Liam."
"Boss," the big man answered, stepping away from the window.
"Did you know about this?"
Liam hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Fiona said it was family business, Declan. She said you agreed to streamline the household staff."
"Fiona lied," Declan said flatly. "Find her."
Fiona took a step forward, her face turning pale. "Declan, no! You are not sending our men to hunt down some maid! You have a commission meeting on Thursday! The Syndicate from Detroit is coming in to discuss the shipping lanes, and if they see you fussing over some domestic staff—"
"Liam," Declan cut her off, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a promise of violence. "Find Elena Vance. Find her daughters. Bring them back here. If anyone stands in your way—including my sister's personal detail—you put them in the ground."
Liam didn't hesitate this time. He bowed his head slightly. "Understood, Boss."
"Liam, don't you dare!" Fiona yelled, stepping in front of the door. "I am the head of the trust!"
Declan hit the joystick on his chair, moving forward with terrifying speed until the footrests bumped against Fiona's shins. He reached up, his large, calloused hand gripping her throat—not tight enough to choke her, but firm enough to lock her in place. His thumb rested directly over her thumping carotid artery.
"Listen to me very carefully, sister," Declan whispered, his breath hot against her cheek. "You think because I can't walk, I can't burn this city to the ground? You think because I sit in this chair, I've forgotten how I built this empire? You touch another hair on Elena's head, you speak one more word to her children, and I will strip you of every dime, every house, and every guard you have ever used to feel safe. Do you understand me?"
Fiona stared into her brother's eyes and saw the monster that the rest of Chicago feared. The man who had survived three point-blank gunshots to the back and still killed all three hitmen before his lungs collapsed.
"Yes," she choked out.
Declan released her, pulling back. "Get out of my sight."
Fiona fled the room, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind her.
Declan sat alone in the dim light of the library, his hand reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small piece of paper that he had found tucked beneath his pillow that morning—a drawing in bright yellow and orange crayon. A sun, a wheelchair, and the shaky, childish handwriting of a six-year-old girl: Get well soon.
May you like
He folded the paper carefully, slid it back into his breast pocket directly over his heart, and looked out at the rain.
"Where are you, Elena?" he murmured into the dark.
