Chapter 3 - Family Secrets and Dangerous Debts
By ten the next morning, the rain had turned into a thick, gray Chicago fog that pressed against the penthouse windows like wet cotton.
Dr. Aris—an elegant, soft-spoken woman who arrived with an entire mobile clinic inside two leather cases—had spent an hour examining Sophie. She confirmed mild bronchial irritation from the dry cabin pressure, administered a gentle saline mist treatment, and provided high-end hypoallergenic formula that had Sophie sleeping like an angel in a custom ivory bassinet Elena had produced from storage.
I was sitting at the massive island in Ethan's stainless-steel kitchen, wearing a borrowed oversized cashmere sweater and leggings, when the elevator doors chimed with an authoritative ping.
Marcus stepped out first. Behind him stumbled my sister Marisol.
"Rachel!"
Marisol broke into a dead sprint across the foyer, throwing her arms around me so hard that my coffee sloshed over the rim of the porcelain mug. She was sobbing hysterically, her eyes bloodshot, her dark curls knotted and wild. She wore an oversized windbreaker that smelled of stale cigarettes and damp basement air.
"Oh god, Ray, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," she wept into my neck. "They told me you were dead, they said someone snatched you from the terminal—"
"I'm fine, Mari. I'm okay. Sophie's fine, she's asleep in the other room," I rushed out, pulling back to look at her face. "What happened to you? Where is Julian?"
At the mention of Julian's name, the temperature in the room plummeted.
Ethan walked into the kitchen from his study, wearing a dark navy suit without a tie, crisp white cuffs buttoned at his wrists. In his hand, he held a manila folder thick with financial printouts and surveillance photographs.
Marisol flinched, shrinking back against me as if she had just seen the devil himself.
"Sit down, Miss Morales," Ethan said, gesturing toward the leather stools.
"Who... who are you?" Marisol whispered, her voice trembling.
"You know who he is, Mari," I said quietly, holding her ice-cold hand. "This is Ethan Callahan."
Marisol’s legs gave out, and she sank onto the stool. Every Chicagoan knew the Callahan crest. It was stamped on half the commercial real estate downtown, etched into the political fabric of City Hall, and whispered in hushed, terrified tones in every tavern from Bridgeport to Wrigleyville.
"Julian didn't just borrow money for a chop shop, did he, Marisol?" Ethan asked, dropping the heavy folder onto the marble island with a crisp slap.
Marisol stared at the folder, tears leaking down her pale cheeks. She didn't open it.
"Julian is a degenerate gambler," Ethan stated plainly. "He took three hundred thousand dollars from Vance’s loan sharks to cover losses at an underground baccarat room in Rosemont. When he couldn't cover the vig, Vance offered him a discount: smuggle four crates of unregistered automatic weapons through the freight yard Julian's cousin controls on 47th Street."
I stared at my sister in absolute disbelief. "Mari... tell me this isn't true. You're marrying this man on Saturday!"
"He told me it was an investment for our house!" Marisol sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "He said he was starting a business! I didn't know about the guns until two nights ago when he came home with blood on his shirt! He lost the crates, Rachel! The federal task force seized the freight car at the railyard, and now Vance thinks Julian tipped off the feds and stole the money!"
Ethan leaned over the counter, his shadow swallowing my sister whole.
"Julian didn't lose the crates," Ethan said softly. "I took them."
Marisol gasped, her head jerking up.
"Julian came to my lieutenants on Tuesday," Ethan continued, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. "He offered to hand over Vance’s entire weapon shipment in exchange for two million dollars and a one-way ticket to Costa Rica. He didn't mention you, Miss Morales. He didn't mention your sister flying in from California. He booked one ticket. Seat 4B, American Airlines, leaving for San José tonight."
The kitchen went dead silent. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Marisol looked like she had been struck with a baseball bat. The color drained from her skin until she was the shade of skim milk. "No... no, Julian loves me. We've been together four years. He's doing this for our wedding..."
Ethan opened the folder, pulling out three glossy 8x10 surveillance photos and sliding them across the marble.
They showed Julian—a handsome, slick-haired man in a leather jacket—standing inside a private lounge at a boutique hotel near O'Hare. His arm was wrapped around a young blonde woman, a designer duffel bag resting at his feet, laughing as they toasted champagne glasses.
"Julian sold Viktor Vance's guns to me, took Vance’s deposit, took your life savings from your joint checking account yesterday morning, and has been staying at the Drake with his mistress for the last forty-eight hours," Ethan said without a shred of pity. "He left you in that Logan Square apartment as bait to buy himself enough time to clear customs."
Marisol stared at the photographs. A guttural, animalistic sound tore from her throat, and she collapsed forward onto the counter, sobbing so violently that her entire body heaved.
I wrapped my arms around her, glaring over her shaking head directly into Ethan Callahan's unreadable eyes.
"Was that really necessary?" I hissed, fury rising through my chest. "Did you have to destroy her like that?"
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"I don't deal in illusions, Rachel," Ethan said, meeting my glare without flinching. "Illusions get people buried in shallow graves in the Indiana dunes. Your sister needs to understand the reality of the ground she's standing on. Because in twelve hours, Viktor Vance is going to realize Julian isn't at that apartment. He’s going to realize the guns are in my warehouse. And when he figures that out, the entire city is going to burn."
***
