Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Wouldn't Move
Waverly Dunn did not zip up her jacket. She did not adjust the fraying strap of her backpack. She simply adjusted her weight on the cold marble floor, her worn sneakers locking against the polished stone like anchors.
"I heard you," Waverly said, her voice dropping into a register that was entirely devoid of fear. "But I’m not leaving."
Prescott Hale’s hand moved instinctively toward the left lapel of his tailored charcoal suit jacket, where the matte-black grip of his Kimber 9mm rested in a custom leather holster. He was a man who cleared obstacles for Lawson Mercer. He cleared rival lieutenants, corrupt city inspectors, and federal surveillance vans. He had never had to clear a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a hole in her left sneaker.
"Let me clarify something for you, Ms. Dunn," Prescott said, leaning down slightly so his shadow completely swallowed her. "In this house, 'no' isn't an invitation to negotiate. It's a boundary. If you don't use your legs to cross it, my men will use theirs to carry you out."
"Then call them," Waverly replied. She looked up, her gray eyes reflecting the cold fluorescent lights of the corridor. "But while they're carrying me out, you'll have to explain to Lawson Mercer why he’s letting his children die in the dark because he’s too proud to let a woman who knows what death looks like sit in the room with them."
The heavy oak double doors behind Prescott groaned.
Lawson Mercer stepped into the hallway. He hadn't shaved in three days. The collar of his white dress shirt was unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the thick, dark ink of a vintage navy tattoo that ran from his wrist to his elbow—a relic of a life he had lived before he inherited the throne of the Chicago underground. His face was a map of exhaustion, but his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and terrifyingly sharp.
"Prescott," Lawson said. The single word slammed through the corridor like a heavy iron vault door closing.
"Boss," Prescott said, stepping back immediately, his chin dropping in a respectful nod. "She refused to leave the perimeter. I was about to have security escort her to the gate."
Lawson didn't look at Prescott. His gaze slid down to Waverly, tracking the cheap fabric of her gray coat, the ancient backpack, and finally settling on the small, brown stuffed bear she was still clutching tightly against her chest.
"You have five seconds to tell me why I shouldn't have you thrown into Lake Michigan," Lawson said, his voice dropping into that low, quiet rumble that usually preceded a funeral.
Waverly didn't flinch. She took a step forward, reducing the distance between herself and the most feared man in Cook County until she could smell the stale espresso and high-end tobacco on his clothes.
"Because your doctor is preparing your children for a funeral they don't have to have yet," Waverly said clearly. "He’s giving them morphine to stop the pain because he doesn't know how to give them a reason to breathe. I’ve sat in that chair, Mr. Mercer. I know the smell of a room when a doctor gives up. Your house doesn't smell like a hospital. It smells like a tomb. And if you keep those black curtains closed for another forty-eight hours, you won't need a medical team. You'll need an undertaker."
The silence that followed was absolute. Odette Marsh caught her breath behind them. Prescott’s hand tightened against his jacket. No one—not his captains, not his lawyers, not the heads of the five major families—had ever spoken to Lawson Mercer with that kind of raw, unvarnished insolence.
Lawson stared at her. His chest rose and fell in a slow, heavy rhythm. For a second, Waverly thought he was going to raise his hand. Instead, his eyes narrowed until they looked like two slivers of gray flint.
"Give me the bear," he commanded.
May you like
Waverly reached out, handing the small stuffed animal back to him. Lawson took it, his massive, scarred fingers looking completely out of place against the soft plush fabric.
"If my children cry once while you are in that room," Lawson whispered, his face moving close enough to hers that she could see the tiny silver scar near his left eyebrow, "I will personally ensure you never see the sun again. Walk."
