Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Gold Coast
Back at the Gold Coast estate, the heavy iron gates stood open to the crisp afternoon breeze, though the security detail had been doubled following Silas’s intelligence reports on the New York murmurs.
Inside the sunlit conservatory, Lily was busy painting a watercolor picture of a golden retriever while Owen sat cross-legged on the Persian rug, meticulously assembling a complex model airplane with the quiet, intense focus of a miniature engineer.
Ryker stood by the arched French doors, holding a secure satellite phone to his ear while watching them through the glass.
"Talk to me, Silas," Ryker said low.
"New York isn't just making noise, Boss," Silas reported from the command center in the basement. "Don Falcone’s inner circle has dispatched an emissary to Chicago. Name’s Luca Moretti. He’s booked a suite at the Drake Hotel under a corporate front, but my digital wiretaps picked up his comms. They’re planning to test our perimeter tonight under the cover of a freight delivery."
Ryker’s eyes narrowed, reflecting the bright afternoon sun like polished obsidian. "They think because I brought two children into my home, I’ve forgotten how to bleed a city dry."
"What do you want me to do? Intercept him at the hotel?"
"No," Ryker replied coldly. "Let him come to the estate. Let him think the gate is soft. It’s time to remind the coast-to-coast syndicates why my name is spoken in whispers."
"Copy that. I'll brief the strike teams."
Ryker ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. He turned around, walking into the conservatory. The smell of watercolor paints and pine wood filled the air.
"Uncle Ryker?" Lily looked up, her winter-blue eyes blinking innocently as she held up a paper smeared with blue and yellow paint. "Is this a good sky?"
Ryker knelt down beside the small wooden table, ignoring the expensive wool of his trousers against the floor. He looked at the crooked sun and the lopsided clouds.
"It’s the best sky I’ve ever seen, bug," Ryker said, a rare, gentle warmth softening the harsh lines of his face.
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"Dad used to say the sky belongs to everyone, no matter how bad things get," Owen muttered, not looking up from his airplane wing. "Even when you're hiding in the garage."
Ryker placed a heavy, protective hand on Owen’s small shoulder. "Your dad was right, kid. But from now on, the only thing above your heads is a ceiling we built ourselves. And nobody’s breaking through it."
