Chapter 2 - The Seven-Year Ghost
Seventy miles away, inside the penthouse office that overlooked the glittering expanse of Chicago’s nighttime skyline, Gideon Locke did not blink as he stared at the screen of a burner phone that had not received a legitimate text message in nearly a decade.
The device rested on a mahogany desk alongside a cold glass of whiskey and a silver revolver that was never loaded unless a war was coming.
For seven years, that phone had been an altar to a ghost.
The number had belonged to Clara—his younger sister, his only remaining bloodline, the bright, fierce university student who had thought she could hide an abusive boyfriend from the most dangerous syndicate leader in the Midwest until it was too late.
Clara had sent a message one rainy Tuesday night.
He hit me again.
By the time Gideon’s men kicked down her apartment door, Clara was gone, and the man who had hurt her was already bleeding out in an alley two blocks away. Gideon had hunted the boyfriend down, but vengeance never brought back the laughter that used to echo down the hallways of their childhood home.
After the funeral, Gideon kept the phone active. He paid the carrier bill every month. He left it sitting in his office drawer as a reminder of his failure.
Until tonight.
He broke my leg. Please help me.
When the text first appeared, Gideon’s heart had stopped for one terrifying fraction of a second. He had thought, against every law of nature, that Clara had somehow returned.
Then came the correction.
Wrong number, sorry.
And then the frantic, broken confession that followed.
Are you safe right now? No. Give me his name and your address.
Now, the burner phone in Gideon’s hand hummed with a fresh notification.
Apartment 2W. His name is Tyler Grayson.
Gideon stood up so fast his leather chair rolled backward and slammed into the glass wall behind him. His face was carved from granite, devoid of emotion, but his eyes burned with an icy, absolute fury.
“Marcus!” he barked.
The heavy oak door swung open instantly. Marcus Vance, Gideon’s head of security and shadow since they were teenagers on the South Side, stepped into the room with a rifle case in hand.
“Boss?” Marcus asked, reading the tension in Gideon’s shoulders.
“Get the convoy ready,” Gideon said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the air in the room feel heavy. “We’re going to the North Side. Apartment 2W.”
“Police scanner?” Marcus asked, already pulling out his tactical radio.
“No police,” Gideon said, walking toward the private elevator at the back of his office. “This isn’t a police matter. This is personal.”
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“Who lives there, Boss?” Marcus asked, jogging to keep pace as the private elevator doors slid open.
“A girl who sent a text to a dead sister,” Gideon said, stepping into the stainless-steel cabin. “And a piece of garbage named Tyler Grayson who is about to find out why no one touches what belongs to me.”
