Chapter 7 - The Cleansing Fire
The rain outside had turned into a steady, gray drizzle by the time the Velvet Room closed its doors at 3:00 AM.
Inside the private office behind the bar, the air smelled of old leather, roasted coffee beans, and the faint, bitter trace of gun oil.
Harper sat in a high-backed leather chair near the brick fireplace, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders. A mug of hot tea sat on the table beside her, untouched, its surface mirroring the dim light of the brass desk lamp.
Gabriel stood near the window, looking out into the wet, empty alley where the delivery trucks usually parked.
Marcus entered the room without knocking, closing the heavy oak door quietly behind him. He looked unperturbed, his overcoat dry, his knuckles slightly pink.
"Done?" Gabriel asked without turning around.
"Done," Marcus said, pulling a set of keys and a battered leather wallet from his coat pocket and laying them on the desk. "He woke up about a mile past the canal. I gave him a train ticket to Milwaukee, twenty dollars in cash, and a clear understanding of what will happen to his legs if he ever buys another ticket back south."
Gabriel picked up the leather wallet, flipped it open to inspect the driver's license inside, and dropped it into the small metal wastebasket beside the desk.
"And his things?"
"My crew cleared out the apartment on Ashland forty minutes ago," Marcus reported, sliding a small canvas duffel bag across the floor toward Harper’s chair. "Three changes of clothes, your sketchbook, and the cash you had hidden under the mattress. Everything else was trash. It's already in the incinerator."
Harper looked down at the canvas duffel bag. Her throat tightened.
"My... my apartment?" she asked, her voice small. "Where am I going to live?"
Gabriel turned away from the window and walked slowly toward her. He stopped a few feet away, his massive frame radiating a steady, unshakeable warmth that seemed to push back the cold dampness of the night.
"You aren't going back to Ashland Avenue," Gabriel said.
"I can't stay here, Mr. Costa," Harper said, shaking her head quickly. "I don't have money for a hotel, I don't—"
"You aren't staying in a hotel," Gabriel interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I have a brownstone on the near North Side. Third floor has been empty since my mother passed away two years ago. It has a secure entrance, an independent security system, and a north-facing window that gets good natural light for your art supplies."
Harper stared up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fear. "Why are you doing this? You don't even know me."
Gabriel pulled a silver pocket watch from his vest, flipped it open, and closed it with a soft click.
"I know that you poured my scotch with two drops of water for four months without ever asking for a favor," Gabriel said simply. "And I know that men who hit women don't belong in my city."
He looked at Marcus with a sharp, meaningful nod.
"Take her car around to the North Side garage, Marcus. Make sure the locks on the brownstone are updated before dawn."
"Right away, boss." Marcus gave Harper a brief, respectful nod, scooped up the duffel bag, and slipped out of the office, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet warmth of the room.
Harper sat motionless beneath the wool blanket. She reached up with her fingers and gently touched her left cheekbone. The heavy makeup was flaking now, sliding away from her skin in small, powdery scales, revealing the raw, healing bruises beneath without any need for camouflage.
May you like
For the first time in three years, she didn't feel the need to cover it up.
"Go wash your face, Harper," Gabriel said softly, pointing toward the private washroom in the corner of the office. "You won't need that mask anymore."
