Chapter 3 - The Ghost Named Eleanor
The following Thursday arrived with a sharp, bitter frost that turned the Chicago sidewalks into sheets of black ice.
I spent the entire week thinking about Table Nine. During my cardiovascular anatomy lectures, while stocking the sociology shelves at the bookstore, and while staring at the yellowed ceiling of my tiny studio apartment in Pilsen, Victor Morgan’s words echoed in my head.
You’re the first person to touch me in twelve years.
I had washed the handkerchief four times. I used cold water, delicate soap, and a soft brush to lift every trace of my blood from the fine white silk. When it dried, I ironed it flat, folded it into a tight square, and tucked it into the pocket of my coat.
At 9:30 p.m. sharp, the front doors of the Red Lion Pub opened, and Victor Morgan walked in.
He was wearing a dark plum three-piece suit tonight, topped with a heavy black wool overcoat that he handed off to Marcus with a brief nod. He walked straight to Table Nine, his stride measured, commanding, and smooth.
I let five minutes pass while he settled into the leather booth. Then, I picked up a tray with a fresh bottle of potato vodka and his clear beef broth, and walked over.
“Good evening, Mr. Morgan,” I said softly.
He looked up from the mahogany table. “Aaliyah.”
I set his order down carefully, ensuring my feet were firmly planted on the floorboards. Then, I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out the neatly folded handkerchief, placing it on the table right next to his drink.
“It’s clean,” I said. “No stains left.”
Victor stared at the white silk for several seconds. He didn't pick it up.
“I told you to keep it,” he said.
“And I told you I can’t,” I replied, standing my ground. “It belonged to someone you care about. The initial... the letter E. It’s not just a handkerchief, is it?”
Victor raised his eyes to meet mine. The gray was flat, unreadable, and deep.
“It belonged to my wife,” he said quietly.
The noise of the pub seemed to fade into the background.
“Her name was Eleanor,” Victor continued, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost a whisper. “She picked out the silk herself in Paris fifteen years ago. She had six of them made for me as an anniversary gift.”
I swallowed hard, looking down at the small piece of fabric. “Where is she now, Mr. Morgan?”
“She died,” he said flatly. “Cancer. Twelve years ago this November.”
A heavy, aching sorrow settled over the table. I looked at Victor—at his strong, immovable jaw, his impeccably tailored suit, and the cold, legendary reputation that kept the entire city of Chicago at bay. And suddenly, I didn't see an untouchable mafia boss anymore.
I saw a man sitting in an empty room, surrounded by ghosts.
Without asking for permission, I slid into the leather banquette across from him.
Victor raised an eyebrow slightly. “Marcus will be upset if he sees you sitting down again.”
“Marcus can write me up,” I said quietly. “Tell me about her.”
Victor paused, his hand hovering over his glass of vodka. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, resting my elbows on the table, “nobody should have to sit in the dark and pretend someone they loved never existed. Tell me about Eleanor.”
For thirty seconds, Victor didn't move. I thought he was going to tell me to get up, or perhaps stand up and leave as he had the week before. But then, his shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch. He leaned back against the deep leather cushions, his long fingers tracing the rim of his crystal glass.
“She was a violinist,” Victor said softly, his gray eyes fixing on a point somewhere far beyond the stained-glass windows of the pub. “She played with the Chicago Symphony. I met her at a benefit dinner in New York nineteen years ago. I was... a very different man back then. Reckless. Violent. Hungry for things that didn't matter.”
A faint, sad shadow of a smile touched his lips.
“She didn't care who my family was,” he continued. “She didn't care about the money or the street names. The first night I met her, she accidentally spilled a glass of red wine right across the lapel of my tuxedo.”
I let out a soft, genuine laugh. “Is that a habit of women who meet you?”
Victor’s eyes flicked to mine, and for the first time, a real, warm light sparked deep within his gray gaze. “Apparently so. She spent twenty minutes trying to dab it out with a cloth, panicking the entire time. Just like you did.”
“She sounds lovely,” I said gently.
“She was everything I was not,” Victor murmured. “Gentle. Kind. Brilliant. When she got sick... I spent millions. I brought specialists from London, Tokyo, Johns Hopkins. I built a private clinic on the top floor of Northwestern Memorial overlooking the lake.”
His hand tightened around his glass until his knuckles turned white.
“None of it mattered,” he whispered. “In the end, all the money in Chicago couldn't stop her lungs from filling with fluid. I sat in that hospital room for three months, holding her hand, watching her slip away piece by piece. The day she died, she made me promise one thing.”
“What did she promise?”
“She made me promise I’d keep living,” Victor said softly. He looked down at his left hand, where a plain silver wedding band still circled his ring finger. “She told me not to build a tomb around myself.”
He looked up at me, his gray eyes raw with an honesty that made my breath catch.
“Have you?” I asked gently. “Kept your promise?”
Victor stared at his ring finger, then looked at me.
“No,” he whispered.
May you like
Without thinking—without considering who he was, or what he could do, or the forty years of terrifying reputation that preceded him—I reached across the table.
And I covered his hand with mine.
