Chapter 1 - The Glass Tower
The cold front off Lake Michigan struck the floor-to-ceiling glass panels of the forty-seventh floor with a sound like throwing crushed ice against a mirror. Below, Chicago lay mapped in geometry and light: Lake Shore Drive curving south in long white ribbons of headlights, the dark void of the water stretching east toward nothing, and the towers of the Loop standing like heavy iron markers above the lower neighborhoods.
In the center of the master bathroom, Sodor Kresnik lay with his shoulder pressed against the white Italian marble. His breathing was heavy, wet, and shallow. Every breath felt as though someone had driven a brass spike between his third and fourth ribs. The fever had crossed 104 degrees two hours past midnight, and with it had come the hallucinations—visions of the stony hills around Jurica Kastrati, the smell of sheep fat burning over green pine wood, and his grandfather’s voice speaking the old Gheg dialect: A man who cannot stand on his own threshold is already a ghost.
He forced his eyes open. The ceiling lights were suspended as blur rings of yellow halogen. Above him, a small shape blocked the light.
"Get out," Sodor said.
The words did not carry the weight he intended. They came out as a ruined gravel scrape, barely louder than the hum of the HVAC return.
Eliti Morceli did not move back. She remained kneeling on the cold floor, her black polyester trousers absorbing the damp chill of the marble. Her dark hair was held firmly behind her ears with a thin plastic headband. Her hands, small and marked at the knuckles by detergent burns, rested on the edge of a silver tray she had set down beside the door. On the tray sat a porcelain bowl of warm salt water, three clean hand towels, a digital thermometer, and a glass of filtered water mixed with a quarter-spoon of sea salt.
"I heard you," Eliti said. Her English was flat, clear, and carried the heavy, open vowels of Casablanca learned alongside the sharp consonants of the West Side. "You said that five minutes ago. You also said it yesterday when you dropped the coffee mug in the gallery."
"I don't... need..." Sodor tried to raise his left hand to push himself up against the side of the soak tub, but his wrist gave out before his palm could clear the floor. His teeth clicked together, his jaw locking so hard the muscle below his ear bulged blue under the gray skin.
"Your brother was here at eight yesterday evening," Eliti said quietly. She wrung out one of the white cotton towels over the bowl, the water dripping in rhythmic splashes. "Dritton. He took the black leather binder from the wall safe behind the library mirror. He had two men with him. One was the lawyer, Mr. Vance. The other was the man who drives the black Lincoln with the tinted rear plates."
Sodor’s dark eyes narrowed. The fever haze cleared for three seconds, replaced by a cold, sharp focus that had governed the northern side of the city for fifteen years. "The ledger?"
"The black one," she confirmed, leaning forward to lay the folded, damp cloth across his forehead. "He told Mr. Vance that you were non-responsive. He said the doctor from the North Shore clinic had already signed the preliminary paper for temporary power of attorney. They were in the room for nine minutes."
Sodor closed his eyes. The cloth was warm, not cold, and the salt in the water drew the greasy heat from his skin. "And you?"
"I was cleaning the brass track on the sliding door in the dining room," she said. "Dritton told me to leave the keys on the counter and go home. He said the estate was being placed under corporate management until the probate court reviewed the family holdings."
"Why... are you here?"
Eliti did not answer immediately. She picked up the glass of water and lifted Sodor’s head with her left arm. Her grip was surprisingly firm for a woman who weighed less than one hundred and ten pounds. She held the rim to his mouth, waiting until he swallowed before allowing his head to rest back against her forearm.
"Because the man Dritton left at the street entrance took my bus pass," she said softly. "And because my aunt taught me that when a house is dying, you do not run into the street with empty hands. Drink."
Sodor swallowed again. The salt water burned his throat, but the dryness in his chest eased slightly.
Through the heavy oak door leading to the main corridor, the faint sound of the private elevator chime chimed once. It was a high, two-tone electronic note that meant someone had bypassed the lobby security using a master keycard.
Footsteps followed—heavy, leather-soled boots moving across the herringbone oak flooring of the great room. There were three men. One walked with a slight drag in his left heel—Dardan "The Maloque" Hoxha, Sodor’s chief of enforcement for the River North territory. The second was lighter, faster—Dritton. The third was heavy, his breath heavy from the forty-seven floor ride—Lawyer Vance.
"Check the master bedroom," Dritton’s voice carried through the tall plaster archways. He was speaking Albanian now, his voice light, almost melodic, the tone of a younger son who had spent his youth spending money he hadn't made. "If he’s still breathing, don't touch him. The medical examiner’s assistant is paid for six AM. If the body is cold by seven, there’s no autopsy. Just the heart failure papers."
"What about the maid?" Dardan asked. His voice was like two bricks rubbing together. "She was still in the building when we left the paper at the precinct."
"She’s nobody," Dritton replied. "A stray from the West Side. Give her five hundred dollars and throw her bag into the alley. If she talks, tell the police she stole a watch from the dresser. They won't look twice."
In the bathroom, Eliti did not look at Sodor. Her hands stayed steady as she folded the second towel.
Sodor reached up. His fingers, heavy and ice-cold, closed around her wrist. His grip was weak, but the intent was clear.
"The small door," he whispered, his chest hitching on the d. "Behind the sauna. The service ladder goes down to the thirty-ninth floor mechanical room."
"I know where the ladder goes," Eliti said softly. "I cleaned the dust off the secondary vents last month."
"Take... the coat," Sodor pointed a trembling finger toward the black cashmere overcoat hanging from the brass hook behind the heavy oak door. "The inside pocket. The silver key."
"I don't want your key, Mr. Kresnik."
"It's not... for money," he rasped, his face twisting as another wave of fever made his body shake involuntarily. "It's for... the garage on Western Avenue. The one with the green door. If I die in this room... Dritton will sell the city to the syndicate in Detroit within three weeks. My mother's brother... in Pukë... he gets nothing. They will kill him."
Eliti looked at the black coat. Then she looked down at the man lying at her feet—the man whose name was spoken in whispered warnings in every restaurant from Devon Avenue to the South Loop, now reduced to a sweat-drenched frame trembling on cold stone.
"You are not going to die on this floor," she said flatly. "It makes too much mess."
May you like
She stood up, grabbed the heavy black coat from the hook, and draped it over her shoulders. Then, reaching down, she hooked her arms under Sodor’s shoulders, her face turning red with the effort as she dragged forty pounds of dead weight three feet toward the low, concealed doorway behind the cedar-paneled sauna.
The footsteps in the great room were coming closer, crossing the high-pile rug of the master bedroom.
