Chapter 8 - THE NORTH SIDE SANCTUARY
The rain was falling in a steady, drumming sheet against the windows of our new living room by the time the moving van finished unloading our few personal belongings into the modest, beautifully appointed brick house on the north side of Chicago. It was a world away from the oppressive, marble-pillared corridors of the Valente estate—warm, quiet, and smelling faintly of fresh pine and clean paint rather than old money and hidden violence.
Amara was already sitting cross-legged on the plush living room rug, happily arranging her colored pencils and notebooks on the low coffee table while humming a cheerful tune to herself.
“Do we ever have to go back to the big castle, Mom?” she asked, looking up as I walked in from the kitchen carrying two mugs of hot cocoa.
“Never again, sweetheart,” I said softly, handing her a mug and sitting down on the sofa beside her, pulling her close into my side. “This is our home now. Just you and me.”
“And nobody is going to take your silver trays away?” she asked innocently.
“Nobody,” I smiled, kissing the top of her head as I looked around the sunlit room.
The cashier’s check Roman had left in the envelope was safely locked away in a drawer upstairs, representing a sum of money so large it still made my head spin to think about it. It was enough to ensure Amara could attend the best private schools in the city, enough to buy groceries without counting pennies, and enough to build a secure, independent future that didn't depend on the whims of dangerous men.
Yet, even wrapped in the safety of our new suburban sanctuary, a lingering sense of unease gnawed quietly at the back of my mind. Men like Roman Valente and Marcus Valente didn't simply sweep family betrayals under the rug and walk away unscathed. Empires built on blood, construction contracts, and underground logistics in Chicago had long memories, and enemies who lost everything in a single morning rarely accepted defeat quietly.
As if echoing my silent fears, my mobile phone—a brand-new smartphone purchased earlier that afternoon—buzzed sharply against the wooden coffee table, breaking the peaceful silence of the room.
I froze, staring down at the glowing screen as an unknown, unlisted number flashed across the display.
“Aren't you going to answer it, Mom?” Amara asked, pausing her drawing to look up at me with curious eyes.
“In a minute, honey,” I said quietly, my hand hovering over the phone as my heart began to hammer against my ribs.
May you like
I took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and pressed the green accept button, holding the device slowly to my ear.
“Clara,” a deep, familiar, raspy voice spoke through the speaker, carrying the unmistakable authority of the man who ruled the Chicago underworld. “I hope you're settling into your new home comfortably.”
