Chapter 6 - Shadows at the Door
By midnight, the North Shore estate was entirely swallowed by the silence of the lake storm.
In the second-floor guest suite, Hannah lay beneath a mountain of goose-down blankets on a bed so soft it felt like floating on a cloud. The room was warm, scented with faint traces of lavender and old paper. The headache had finally receded into a dull, manageable thrum behind her eyes.
Yet she couldn't sleep.
She sat up slowly, wrapping a thick cashmere robe around her shoulders, and walked barefoot across the heated hardwood floor to the window. Down below, the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan crashed against the stone retaining wall.
Her mind raced through the events of the last twenty-four hours.
Damen Moretti. The name echoed in her head like a warning bell.
She knew men like him—or rather, she knew the kind of men who created the patients she treated at West Haven. The men who operated in the shadows of Chicago, settling scores with quiet violence, buying influence with money soaked in blood and broken contracts. He had rescued her, yes. He had fed her, given her a warm bed, and looked at her with an intensity that made her skin burn.
But he was a syndicate boss. Staying in his house was walking directly into the lion’s den.
I have to leave, she told herself, tightening the belt of her robe. As soon as the sun comes up, I’m taking a cab back to Austin.
A soft, discreet knock sounded at the suite door.
Hannah froze. She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table: 1:15 AM.
"Who is it?" she called out, her voice slightly tight.
"It’s Mrs. Gable, Miss Brooks. May I come in?"
Hannah exhaled, crossing the room to unlock the heavy brass latch.
The housekeeper stepped inside, carrying a small silver tray with a steaming porcelain teapot and a folded note. Her face, usually so calm and composed, carried a faint shadow of tension.
"I thought you might be awake," Mrs. Gable said softly, placing the tray on the mahogany desk by the window. "Mr. Moretti asked me to bring this up. He’s still working in his study downstairs."
Hannah looked at the folded envelope resting beside the teapot. Her name was written across the heavy cardstock in sharp, decisive ink.
"Is something wrong, Mrs. Gable?" Hannah asked, noticing the housekeeper’s guarded posture.
Mrs. Gable hesitated, pouring a cup of tea before looking up. "Mr. Moretti received a call an hour ago from one of his security directors in the city. It appears someone made inquiries at the West Haven Clinic tonight asking for your home address."
Hannah’s blood ran cold. The warmth of the room seemed to vanish instantly.
"Inquiries?" she whispered. "Who?"
"Men working for Marcus Vance," Mrs. Gable said quietly, using a tone that suggested that name carried a very specific, lethal weight in their world. "An enforcer from the South Side docks. Mr. Moretti handled the matter immediately, of course. Those men will not be bothering you or your clinic again."
Hannah’s hands began to shake. She gripped the edge of the desk.
Marcus Vance.
The name triggered a visceral, physical reaction—a sharp spike of terror that she had spent the last eight months trying to bury beneath endless shifts at the clinic, double-shuttle bus rides, and a constant, desperate smile.
"He found me," Hannah whispered, her voice cracking as tears of frustration and fear welled in her eyes. "I thought... I thought if I moved across the city, if I changed my number, if I hid behind work..."
"Nobody hides from Marcus Vance in Chicago," Mrs. Gable said gently, her eyes filled with unexpected compassion. "Except, perhaps, inside this house."
The housekeeper placed a reassuring hand on Hannah’s shoulder, then quietly excused herself, leaving Hannah alone in the silent, candlelit room.
Hannah stared down at the envelope on the desk.
May you like
With trembling fingers, she picked it up, broke the heavy seal, and unfolded the note inside. Damen’s handwriting was bold, sharp, and unmistakably certain:
You are safe here, Hannah. Stay in your room. Let me handle the ghosts.
