Chapter 5 - The Shadows on Wabash Avenue
The next three weeks passed in a strange, surreal blur.
Saturdays and Thursdays became the anchor points of my week. Every shift at the Red Lion Pub ended at Table Nine.
It started with small conversations—twenty minutes squeezed into the end of my shift while Marcus grumbled in the background. But soon, twenty minutes turned into an hour. Victor would stay past midnight, long after the rest of the pub had cleared out, sitting in the dark booth while I wiped down the wooden tables and stacked the chairs.
He listened to me talk about my anatomy exams, my frustration with pediatric IV placements, and my dreams of working in the trauma ICU at Cook County Hospital. In return, he told me stories about Chicago—about the secret tunnels beneath the Loop built during Prohibition, about the old Italian bakeries in Taylor Street that no longer existed, and about his quiet, lonely estate in Lake Forest that sat overlooking the grey, frozen expanse of Lake Michigan.
He started finishing his broth. He started laughing at my terrible nursing-school jokes—deep, low rumbles that seemed to start in his chest and transform his entire face, erasing twenty years of cold stone from his features.
He felt more human with every passing night.
And I... I was falling hopelessly, terrifyingly in love with him.
I knew it was madness. I was a twenty-two-year-old broke nursing student with sixty dollars in my bank account, and he was a fifty-year-old syndicate patriarch whose name made federal prosecutors sweat through their shirts. But when he looked at me, he didn't see an orphan, a servant, or a poor student. He saw me.
Then came the second Thursday of November.
It was midnight. The rain had turned into a wet, slushy sleet that plastered dead leaves against the pub windows. I had finished my shift, changed out of my apron into a warm wool sweater and jeans, and was standing near Table Nine, wrapping my scarf around my neck.
“Let me drive you home,” Victor said, standing up from the table and pulling his heavy wool overcoat over his shoulders.
“Victor, my apartment is twenty minutes away in Pilsen,” I said, smiling as I pulled my gloves on. “The CTA bus runs until 1:00 a.m. I’ll be fine.”
“The weather is miserable, and Wabash Avenue is not safe at midnight,” Victor said, his voice leaving no room for debate. “My driver, Thomas, is waiting outside. I insist.”
I let out a soft sigh, yielding to his authority. “Fine. But only if you let me pay for my own coffee on Saturday.”
Victor chuckled, reaching out to gently adjust the fold of my scarf near my throat. His fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a warm, electricity-like shiver straight down my spine.
“Deal,” he murmured.
We walked out of the Red Lion Pub together. The night air was freezing, slicing through my wool sweater like needles. Parked directly along the curb was a massive, black armored Mercedes sedan, its engine idling quietly, white exhaust billowing into the frosty air. A tall driver in a dark suit opened the rear door the moment we stepped onto the pavement.
“Good evening, Miss Aaliyah,” Thomas, the driver, said politely.
“Good evening, Thomas,” I smiled.
We were three feet from the car door when the air was shattered by a sharp, deafening CRACK.
It sounded like a firecracker exploding inside a steel pipe.
Instantly, the passenger window of the Mercedes shattered into a million spiderweb cracks. A dark hole appeared in the center of the reinforced glass.
Before my brain could register what was happening, Victor’s body slammed into mine.
He moved with an unnatural, terrifying speed—a blur of broad shoulders and pure kinetic power. His large arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me violently against his chest, shielding my body with his own as he threw us both toward the open doorway of the building next to the pub.
CRACK! CRACK!
Two more shots slammed into the brickwork right above our heads, spraying us with red dust and broken masonry.
I screamed, my hands clutching frantically at Victor’s heavy coat. “Victor!”
“Down! Stay down!” he barked, his voice no longer the gentle baritone he used in the booth. It was a roar—cold, lethal, and laced with absolute command.
Thomas pulled a dark, heavy handgun from beneath his coat, firing three rapid shots back toward a dark sedan parked across the street under the elevated train tracks. The sedan’s tires squealed violently against the wet asphalt as it reversed down the alleyway, its headlights switching off as it vanished into the dark Chicago night.
Silence slammed back down over the street, broken only by the hum of the Mercedes engine and my own frantic, gasping breaths.
Victor was kneeling over me in the alcove, his massive body completely covering mine. His left hand was pressed firmly against the back of my head, holding me close to his chest, while his right hand held a heavy, black automatic pistol I hadn't even seen him draw from his jacket.
His face was inches from mine.
The warmth was gone. The gentle gray eyes were gone. In their place stood a terrifying, predatory beast—a man whose eyes blazed with a lethal, unadulterated fury that chilled me to the very marrow of my bones.
This was Victor Morgan, the mafia boss of Chicago.
He swept the street with his gaze, his chest heaving, his weapon held steady as iron. Then, slowly, he looked down at me.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low, raspy, and sharp. “Aaliyah, look at me. Did a bullet touch you?”
“N-No,” I sobbed, clutching his coat lapels, my body trembling uncontrollably. “I’m... I’m not hurt.”
Victor closed his eyes for two long seconds, letting out a deep, shuddering breath. The dark, lethal energy surrounding him receded slightly, though his hand remained wrapped tightly around the back of my head.
“Thomas!” Victor shouted over his shoulder.
“The street is clear, sir,” Thomas called back, his gun still drawn as he scanned the alleyway. “It was a scout car from the Moretti crew. They were waiting for you to leave the pub.”
Victor stood up, pulling me effortlessly up with him. He didn't let go of my waist. He held me tightly against his side, his arm an iron band that kept me from falling onto the wet pavement.
“We’re going to Lake Forest,” Victor said coldly. “You aren't staying at your apartment tonight.”
“Victor, my classes—”
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“I don't care about your classes tonight, Aaliyah!” he snapped, his gray eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate panic. “They were aiming for me, but they almost hit you. You are coming with me where there are walls that can stop a military rifle.”
I looked at his face—at the dark rage, the lethal instincts, and the desperate, terrifying fear for my life—and I realized that the man hiding behind those cold gray eyes was far more dangerous, and far more devoted to me, than I had ever dared to imagine.
