Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the West Side
Three days later, the rain had turned the city into a blurred reflection of neon and wet asphalt. Nina stood inside the glass partition of the dialysis clinic, watching the rhythmic hum of the machine that was keeping her mother alive. Eleanor Harper looked fragile beneath the heavy cotton blankets, her skin translucent, her silver hair spilling across the pillow.
“You’re late today, Nini,” Eleanor said, her voice a soft, raspy whisper that broke through the mechanical clicking of the medical equipment. “Did the restaurant have a private event?”
Nina forced a bright, practiced smile onto her lips as she adjusted the blanket around her mother’s shoulders. “Just a busy weekend, Ma. One of the high-end investors left a massive tip. I managed to clear the outstanding balance for the pharmacy account this morning.”
Eleanor reached out, her frail hand, scarred from years of IV lines, gripping Nina’s fingers. “You’re working too hard in that place, Nina. I hear the stories on the news. The men who frequent the Gold Coast clubs... they aren't like the folks back in southern Illinois. They have money that tastes like blood. I don't want you paying for my life with your peace.”
“It’s just plates and glasses, Ma,” Nina lied smoothly, kissing her forehead. “Nobody looks at the girl in the apron.”
But as she walked out of the clinic an hour later, the lie felt heavy in her gut. She pulled her threadbare woolen coat tight against her chest as she stepped onto the sidewalk of Harrison Street. The sky was the color of a bruised knee, and the wind off the lake was vicious.
She was half a block away from the CTA station when a black, armored Cadillac Escalade slid silently against the curb beside her. The tint on the windows was so deep it mirrored the grey sky perfectly.
Nina’s heart stopped. She shifted her canvas tote bag into her left hand, her fingers slipping inside to grip the small, brass canister of pepper spray she carried for the late-night walks.
The rear passenger window rolled down three inches. The interior of the car was dark, but the scent of lemon oil and expensive leather drifted out into the cold air.
“Get in, Miss Harper,” a calm, familiar voice said from the shadows.
Nina stood her ground, her boots splashing into a puddle. “I’m off the clock, Mr. Crowe. If the restaurant needs me to cover a private party, Marcus has my number.”
A low, resonant bark echoed from the back seat, followed by the heavy thrum of a tail slamming against the leather upholstery. Cerberus’s scarred snout appeared in the small gap of the window, his amber eyes fixed on her with absolute recognition.
The rear door clicked open. Sebastian Crowe sat in the center of the leather bench, a tablet computer resting on his thigh, his tailored overcoat unbuttoned. He looked at her with the same terrifying, patient curiosity he had displayed at Table Seven.
“Caleb Whitmore’s family owns three private equity firms and forty percent of the commercial real estate on the North Side,” Sebastian said, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather rather than a threat matrix. “He didn't take his removal from my restaurant well. Two of his associates have spent the last forty-eight hours asking the night staff at The Serpent Room for your home address. Marcus gave them an incorrect street name, but they are stupid men with a lot of money. They will find the right one by dusk.”
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Nina felt the world tilt slightly. The pepper spray in her bag felt suddenly useless, a plastic toy against a storm. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because Cerberus is currently refusing to eat his prime rib because he smells your uniform on my jacket,” Sebastian said, looking down at the pit bull, who had successfully jammed his entire head through the open door to press his ears against Nina’s sleeve. “And because I don't like when men from the North Side think they can clean up their messes on my territory. Get in the car, Nina. Let’s go for a drive before Caleb’s people find out your mother is registered under her maiden name.”
