Chapter 4 - The Safehouse in the Suburbs
The small rental house in Oak Park was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the radiator and the quiet clatter of plastic plates being cleared from the kitchen counter.
Wren Ashcombe stood at the kitchen sink, letting the warm tap water run over her hands as she stared out the grease-stained window into the dark backyard. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird beating its wings in the cage of her chest.
She had seen him.
After four years of sleepless nights, of building a fortress out of routine, of teaching her children to lock doors and never talk to strangers, the ghost of her past had stepped out of a limousine in Grant Park and shattered her entire world in ten seconds.
“Mommy?”
Wren jumped, turning quickly.
Her oldest son, Leo—the one with the dark curls and Weston’s unmistakable gray eyes—stood in the doorway of the kitchen, clutching a worn stuffed bear by its missing ear.
“Hey, sweetie,” Wren said, her voice catching as she quickly wiped her face with a hand towel and forced a bright, reassuring smile. “Why aren't you in bed? It’s past eight o'clock.”
“Maya and Toby are sleeping,” Leo said softly, walking over and wrapping his small arms around her waist, burying his face in her apron. “Are we going to move again, Mommy?”
Wren froze. The question cut straight through her soul. Every time she looked at her children, she was terrified that today was the day their fragile, peaceful life would be ripped away by the dark world she had barely escaped.
She knelt down on the linoleum floor, pulling Leo tightly against her chest, inhaling the sweet, clean scent of baby shampoo and cotton pajamas.
“No, baby,” she whispered, kissing the top of his curly head while tears slipped silently down her cheeks. “We’re not moving. We’re safe here. I promise you, nobody is going to take us away.”
“Who was the scary man in the park?” Leo asked, looking up at her with those devastating, piercing gray eyes that looked ten years older than his actual age. “The one who shouted your name.”
Wren’s breath hitched. How do you explain to a four-year-old child that his father is a Chicago mafia kingpin who didn't even know he existed until three hours ago? How do you explain that the man whose blood runs through their veins is a name people whisper in fear across the entire Midwest?
“Just... an old friend, buddy,” Wren managed to say, her voice cracking. “A ghost from the past who got lost. But he’s gone now.”
He’s gone now.
Even as she said the words, a cold, heavy dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew Weston Kade better than anyone. She knew the terrifying, relentless tenacity that had made him a kingpin before he turned thirty. He wouldn't let it go. Not when he had seen his own eyes staring back from a toddler’s face.
Suddenly, out in the quiet suburban street, the low, unmistakable rumble of a high-performance engine echoed through the night air.
Wren stood up instantly, her heart stopping.
May you like
A black car pulled up to the curb in front of the house and parked without turning on its headlights.
Through the front window, Wren watched as the heavy passenger door swung open and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out onto the frosty sidewalk, walking with slow, deliberate strides straight toward her front porch.
