Chapter 1 - THE WOMAN IN THE SNOW
Snow was falling hard over Chicago the night Delaney Whitfield found the old woman behind the restaurant.
Delaney was 27, with tired hazel eyes that still managed to look kind after a 14-hour shift, chapped hands from carrying hot plates, and worn shoes belonging to a woman who had learned how far a person could walk on very little.
She waited tables at an upscale Italian restaurant in River North. At the end of each shift, she returned to a deteriorating studio apartment on the South Side and a life narrowed by debt.
Her mother had died of cancer 2 years earlier.
The hospital bills had not died with her.
Delaney still owed $11,000.
She had sold her mother’s wedding ring. She worked double shifts. She ate restaurant leftovers so she could avoid buying groceries.
The balance remained.
That night, after the last customers had gone, Delaney carried trash through the rear door into the alley.
Snow moved thickly through the dark.
Near the dumpster, she heard a faint broken sound.
She stopped.
A frail older woman sat in the snow.
She looked approximately 68.
Her lips were blue.
Her entire body shook.
One hand was inside a garbage bag, searching for food.
Delaney did not hesitate.
She knelt beside her, removed her own coat, wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders, and helped her toward the restaurant.
In the darkness, Delaney failed to notice several things.
Beneath the filthy outer clothing was cashmere.
A diamond ring remained on one of the trembling fingers, a ring worth more than Delaney would earn in 10 years.
And the woman kept whispering the same name.
Damon.
Delaney assumed she was confused.
She had no idea she had just found the mother of the most dangerous man in Chicago.
The kitchen had fallen silent.
The cooks had gone.
The dishwasher had finally stopped running.
Steam blurred the windows.
Delaney lowered the woman onto a stool beside the warming counter, where residual heat from the ovens still pushed weakly against the winter air entering through the rear door.
The woman’s hands would not stop trembling.
Delaney pretended not to notice the way she gripped the steel counter, as though she expected the floor to tilt beneath her.
“Sit here. I’ll get you something warm.”
There was still minestrone.
Real soup.
The stoves had been shut down, so Delaney ladled a bowl and placed it in the microwave.
She watched the numbers count downward with an impatience she could not explain.
When the bowl was ready, she placed it before the woman.
The woman stared.
For a moment, she seemed to have forgotten what the spoon was for.
Delaney pressed it gently into her hand and closed those shaking fingers around the handle.
“Eat slowly. Nobody’s taking it away from you.”
The first spoonfuls came cautiously.
Then faster.
Delaney had to touch the woman’s wrist and remind her to breathe.
Tears gathered at the corners of the older woman’s eyes.
Delaney could not tell whether they came from warmth, shame, relief, or something older.
“You’re a good child,” the woman whispered.
“It’s just soup.”
“No.”
The old woman shook her head with unexpected certainty.
“No. It wasn’t.”
For several minutes, she seemed almost completely present.
Then her eyes moved toward the swinging kitchen door.
Confusion entered her face.
Then fear.
“Has my son come?”
Delaney stayed near her.
“He worries. Always worrying. I tell him I’m fine. He never listens. Even when he was little, he never listened.”
A smile appeared.
“He was such a solemn boy. Always frowning. I used to tell him if he kept doing it, his face would freeze that way.”
Delaney lowered herself until their faces were level.
She had done the same thing with her own mother during the final stages of chemotherapy, when morphine left her drifting between memory and the present.
“What’s your son’s name?”
The old woman opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
Her face changed.
“I… I can’t.”
She tried again.
“Why can’t I?”
Delaney immediately took her hand.
“That’s okay. It doesn’t matter right now.”
The woman looked at her.
“You’re warm. You’ve eaten. We’ll figure everything else out afterward.”
The older woman softened.
She kept holding Delaney’s hand.
At that moment, Delaney’s phone vibrated.
She looked at the screen.
Mercy General Hospital.
Final notice.
Her account was overdue and at risk of being sent to collections.
$11,000.
The number had followed her through 2 years of double shifts and exhaustion.
It had survived the sale of her mother’s wedding ring.
It remained unmoved by every sacrifice.
Delaney locked the screen.
Not now.
The person in front of her needed more attention than a number.
“I think we should get you checked by a doctor. Just to be safe. I can call a cab.”
The woman’s fingers tightened painfully around Delaney’s hand.
“No hospital.”
The words came with sudden clarity.
“No. He will come. He always comes.”
Delaney softened her voice.
“All right. No hospital.”
She brushed a strand of silver hair from the woman’s forehead.
“But you can’t stay outside tonight. Let me call somebody. Do you know a number? Anyone I can reach?”
The woman stared at her with wide, lost eyes.
Then she repeated quietly:
“He will come.”
She was right.
The first warning was the sound of tires grinding through slush.
Three black sport utility vehicles entered the alley almost simultaneously.
Their headlights swept across the steamed kitchen windows.
Before Delaney had fully processed what she was seeing, the back door opened violently.
Cold air entered first.
Then men.
Four or 5 of them, all dressed in dark clothing.
They moved with a speed and precision that ordinary people did not possess.
A gun was pointed directly at Delaney.
“Step away from her.”
Delaney froze.
“Hands up. Don’t move.”
She raised both hands slowly.
Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it.
“I didn’t do anything.”
One man moved behind her.
Another checked the older woman.
“How long have you had her?”
“What?”
“How much do you want?”
Delaney stared.
“Who hired you?”
The questions came too quickly.
Then she understood.
They believed she had kidnapped the woman.
“No. No, I found her outside. She was behind the trash bins. She was freezing.”
The gun remained aimed at her.
“She was hungry. I gave her soup. That’s all. Please.”
Then the old woman changed.
She rose so abruptly that the stool toppled behind her.
Her voice, confused only moments earlier, became sharp and commanding.
“Lower those weapons.”
The room froze.
She stepped between Delaney and the gun.
“This girl saved me.”
Her shoulders straightened.
“She fed me. She put her coat around me. How dare you point a gun at her?”
The men looked at one another.
Weapons lowered several inches.
Then another man entered.
He was older.
Gray-streaked hair.
An expensive wool coat dusted with snow.
He moved slowly because he had never needed to hurry to make people obey.
His name was Frank.
With one slight movement of his hand, every visible weapon disappeared beneath a coat.
Frank went immediately to the older woman.
“Mrs. Bianchi.”
His voice changed when addressing her.
Gentle.
Reverent.
“Are you hurt?”
She held his arm but continued looking at Delaney.
“The girl is good. Don’t hurt her.”
Frank turned.
His eyes settled on Delaney.
They were calm and cold.
“What’s your name?”
“Delaney Whitfield.”
“Did you call anyone?”
“No.”
“Take photographs?”
“No.”
“Tell anyone she was here?”
“I was going to call a cab and take her to a hospital.”
Something softened almost imperceptibly in Frank’s expression.
He nodded once.
“Miss Whitfield, you’ve done something tonight that you don’t fully understand.”
Delaney swallowed.
“Because of that, you need to come with us.”
Her face changed.
“I’m not being arrested?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“So this can be handled properly.”
His tone was polite.
It was also impossible to mistake for a request.
“I still have to close the restaurant.”
Frank gestured toward one of the men.
“That will be handled.”
Delaney started to protest.
Then Mrs. Bianchi reached toward her.
The wrinkled hand trembled.
Delaney looked at the older woman.
If she walked away, she would be leaving her again among strangers.
She nodded.
Frank arranged for one of his men to speak with the manager and explain Delaney’s sudden absence.
A heavy fur coat was brought for Mrs. Bianchi.
Then the group returned to the alley.
The 3 black vehicles waited with engines running, white exhaust moving through the snow.
A rear door opened.
Delaney climbed inside.
She had no idea that the woman who entered that vehicle would never return to the same life.
The convoy drove north for almost 1 hour along the lake.
Chicago lights gradually thinned.
The city became darkness and trees.
Eventually, iron gates appeared before the vehicles.
They were taller than a person.
Beyond them, the convoy followed a long gravel drive through the Lake Forest suburbs.
A large greystone mansion emerged through the snow.
Its windows glowed yellow.
It was beautiful in the way museums were beautiful.
Cold.
Precise.
Untouched.
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The vehicle stopped beneath a covered entrance.
Delaney looked through the window at two stone lions guarding the steps.
“Where are we?”
Frank opened the door.
“The Bianchi residence.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
For the first time, he almost smiled.
“Lake Forest.”
“I know we're in Lake Forest. I mean, who are these people?”
Before he could answer, the front doors opened.
A tall man stepped outside.
He wore black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He had dark hair, a sharply defined jaw, and the exhausted expression of someone who hadn't slept in days.
The men around Delaney straightened immediately.
“Mr. Bianchi,” Frank said.
The man's eyes went straight to the elderly woman.
“Mom.”
His voice cracked.
He crossed the distance in seconds.
The older woman lifted her arms.
“Damon.”
He wrapped her carefully in his embrace.
For a moment, the powerful stranger looked like a frightened little boy.
“Where were you?” he whispered. “I've been looking everywhere.”
She touched his face.
“You worry too much.”
He closed his eyes.
Then she turned toward Delaney.
“This girl fed me.”
Damon looked up.
His dark eyes settled on the young waitress standing in borrowed warmth and worn shoes.
“Who is she?”
Frank answered.
“Delaney Whitfield. She found your mother behind a restaurant in River North.”
Damon stared.
“Behind a restaurant?”
Delaney swallowed.
“She was freezing.”
The older woman squeezed her son's arm.
“She gave me her coat.”
Damon's gaze dropped to Delaney's chapped hands.
Then to her shoes.
Then back to her face.
“Come inside,” he said.
Delaney hesitated.
“I really should go home.”
His expression softened.
“Please. At least let us make sure you're warm.”
Something about the word please surprised her.
May you like
She followed them into the mansion.
And the doors closed behind her.
