Chapter 9 - The Siege
The heavy oak doors of the study flew open before Lawson could answer.
Aveline stood in the doorway, her amber eyes blazing with a fury that burned hotter than any fire. She didn't look like a healer now; she looked like an executioner.
In her hand, she held a folded piece of parchment paper she had found tucked behind the medical supply cabinet in the east wing—a letter written in Genevieve’s familiar, elegant handwriting, dated two weeks before her death.
“You lied to me,” Aveline said, her voice shaking with rage as she marched across the room toward Lawson. “You told me she died of a sudden heart failure brought on by postpartum complications. That’s what your press releases said. That’s what your doctors signed off on!”
Lawson didn't step back. He stood his ground, towering over her as she thrust the letter into his chest.
“Read it, Lawson!” she cried out, tears finally spilling over her lashes, hot and bright against her pale cheeks. “Read what she wrote about your enemies! She wrote that Crosby Vane had poisoned her water supply to get to you! She wrote that you knew about the threats and kept her locked in this cage anyway!”
Before Lawson could speak, the security monitors on the wall flickered violently.
The red emergency lights began to pulse across the room.
Warning. Perimeter breach at the western gate. Multiple heavy vehicles approaching. Estimated headcount: twenty-five armed combatants.
Prescott cursed loudly, drawing his weapon and spinning toward the door. “It’s Crosby. He’s bringing a private militia. He knows the feds are looking the other way because of the snowstorm.”
Aveline froze, the letter slipping from her fingers to flutter softly against the Persian rug. “Crosby?”
“He thinks we’re vulnerable,” Lawson said, his face hardening into an expression of absolute, terrifying wrath. The grief, the shock, the betrayal of Genevieve’s letter—all of it vanished, compressed into a singular, razor-sharp focus.
He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a heavy tactical vest strapped with extra magazines, and shoved it onto his shoulders with ruthless efficiency.
“Prescott, take three men and secure the east wing nursery,” Lawson commanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “If anyone so much as scratches the glass of that room, I want their heads on pikes before dawn.”
“Boss, what about you?” Prescott shouted over the wailing sirens.
Lawson pulled the slide of a customized tactical shotgun back with a deafening clack, the heavy steel chambering a slug with lethal finality.
“I’m going to go remind Crosby Vane why his father stopped doing business on the North Side,” Lawson said.
He turned to look at Aveline one last time before heading for the stairs. She was standing frozen amidst the flashing red lights, her hands trembling as she looked at the man who was both the executioner of her sister’s world and the only shield standing between her nephews and absolute destruction.
May you like
“Lock the doors,” Lawson told her over the roar of the approaching assault vehicles outside. “If I don't come back in twenty minutes, take the kids through the tunnel behind the panic room. My men will get you to the lake.”
Without waiting for her answer, the king of the Chicago underworld turned his back and walked straight into the fire.
