Chapter 9 - The Reckoning in Chicago
*Northwestern Memorial Hospital — Three weeks later.*
The private wing on the tenth floor of the hospital was silent, save for the rhythmic, electronic beep of a cardiac monitor.
Outside the reinforced windows, Chicago was finally shaking off the winter. The gray ice on Lake Michigan had broken into vast, drifting floes beneath an early April sun, the water flashing brilliant turquoise in the morning light.
I sat in a high-backed leather armchair beside the bed, my feet propped on a low stool, an open sketchbook resting across the massive dome of my belly.
At twenty-eight weeks, our daughter had developed an uncanny habit of kicking whenever the heart monitor beeped above eighty beats per minute.
On the bed, Declan Voss was finally awake.
He was propped up against four pillows, wearing a dark gray hospital gown that did nothing to hide the heavy white bandages taped across his ribs and abdomen. A bullet had shattered his tenth rib and clipped his liver, missing his hepatic artery by less than two centimeters.
He was pale, visibly thinner, but the lethal sharpness had returned to his eyes.
He wasn't looking at the city.
He was watching my charcoal pencil dance across the heavy paper.
“You’re drawing her again,” he said. His voice was still gravelly, raspy from weeks on an intubation tube, but the deep, grounding timbre made my chest ache with warmth.
“I’m drawing her nursery,” I replied, not looking up from the sketch. “June found a sixteenth-century French armoire at an estate sale in Raleigh. She said she’ll restore the gilt trim if I stop criticizing her clove cigarettes.”
Declan let out a low chuckle, then winced, his hand drifting instinctively toward his taped ribs.
“Don't laugh,” I scolded gently, setting the pencil down. “The doctor said if you tear those sutures again, he’s going to keep you here until May.”
Declan looked at me, his pale blue eyes softening into an expression of raw, unvarnished worship. “If you’re here, they can keep me until next year.”
The double doors of the private suite swung open with a soft hiss.
Gavin Roarke stepped into the room, dressed in his usual sharp suit, carrying an embossed leather portfolio. He nodded respectfully to me before turning to Declan.
“It’s done,” Gavin said.
Declan’s jaw set. “Give me the summary.”
Gavin opened the portfolio, laying three documents on the rolling table over Declan’s bed.
“The Department of Justice accepted the plea deal for Marcus Calloway. He pled guilty to seven counts of racketeering, money laundering, and conspiracy to commit murder. He was sentenced to twenty-five years at ADX Florence this morning. He won't see daylight again.”
Declan’s expression didn't change. “And Savannah?”
“Conspiracy charges were upheld,” Gavin replied smoothly. “Her passport was surrendered. She begins a twelve-year sentence at the federal facility in Danbury next Tuesday. The Calloway empire has been entirely dismantled.”
Gavin took a breath, his eyes flicking toward me before returning to Declan.
“And the Voss Holdings restructuring?” Declan asked.
“Completed yesterday afternoon,” Gavin said, sliding the final document forward. “The shipping terminals have been sold to an international maritime conglomerate based in Rotterdam. The security contracts have been severed. All proceeds—approximately four hundred and twenty million dollars—have been transferred into a blind family trust registered in your daughter’s name, administered by an independent board in Dublin.”
Gavin snapped the portfolio shut.
“Declan... Voss Maritime is officially a commercial real estate and historic preservation firm. You are completely out of the syndicate. The Commission has officially declared Cook County open territory.”
The room fell into a heavy, profound silence.
For a hundred years, the Voss name had commanded terror from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico. Men had died by the hundreds for a fraction of the power Declan had just signed away on three sheets of legal parchment.
Declan didn't even look at the numbers.
He took the gold Montblanc pen Gavin offered, scrawled his jagged signature across the bottom of the deed, and handed the pen back.
“Good,” Declan said simply. “Get out, Gavin. Go take a vacation.”
Gavin looked at his boss for a long moment. A rare, genuine smile touched the corners of the security chief’s stone face. He gave a sharp, formal bow of his head.
“It was an honor, sir,” Gavin said. Then, looking at me, “Take care of him, Amelia. He’s terrible at following orders.”
“I’ve noticed,” I smiled.
Gavin stepped out of the room, letting the heavy doors seal behind him.
The king of Chicago was no longer a king.
He was just a man with a shattered rib, four hundred million dollars in legitimate real estate, and a woman who had taught him how to breathe.
Declan reached across the sheets, extending his hand toward me.
I didn't hesitate. I stood up, walked to the edge of the bed, and slid my fingers into his. His grip was warm, strong, and entirely steady.
“We aren't staying in Chicago,” he said softly, searching my eyes.
“I know,” I replied, reaching up with my free hand to smooth the dark hair from his forehead. “Where are we going?”
“Black Mountain,” Declan said without missing a beat. “I bought the ridge behind June’s shop. Fifty acres of old-growth oak and pine. I’ve already hired an architect to design a studio with northern light for your paintings, and a nursery with big bay windows facing the mountains.”
Tears welled in my eyes, warm and sweet. “Declan... you don't know how to live in a small town. You’ll terrify the hardware store clerk.”
“I’ll learn,” he whispered, pulling my hand to his lips and pressing a fierce, lingering kiss against my knuckles. “I’ll learn how to plant a garden. I’ll learn how to build rocking chairs. I’ll learn whatever I have to learn, Amelia, as long as every morning starts with you and our girl.”
He reached down, his broad palm coming to rest against my swollen stomach.
Beneath his touch, our daughter responded immediately, rolling against his hand with a heavy, unmistakable surge.
Declan let out a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes shining with tears he no longer bothered to hide.
“She knows my voice,” he whispered, awestruck.
May you like
“She’s known your voice since November, Declan,” I smiled through my tears. “She was just waiting for you to catch up.”
***
