Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Taylor Street
The sunroom at the back of the Lake Forest estate was a wide, glass-enclosed space that looked out over the mist-shrouded gardens and the distant, gray line of the lake. It was the only room in the house that didn't feel weighted down by the family’s violent history; it was filled with large green ferns, white wicker furniture, and the soft, clean smell of rain-dampened stone.
Callum sat on the low sofa, Wren still balanced on his knee. He had removed his wet tuxedo jacket, his white linen shirt now unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveals the thick, faded scars along his forearms—reminders of the transition war that had claimed his father’s life six years ago.
Iris sat across from him, a mug of black coffee between her hands that the housekeeper, Clara, had brought her ten minutes ago. Her hair was still damp, but she had removed the faded coat, revealing a simple navy blue sweater that made her look younger, softer, and entirely out of place among the expensive marble and glass.
"She’s quiet," Callum said, his finger gently tracing the soft curve of Wren’s cheek. The girl was staring at his silver watch, her small fingers reaching out to touch the ticking second hand with a look of intense, quiet concentration. "She doesn't cry much, does she?"
"She only cries when people shout," Iris said, her voice low and weary. She took a slow sip of the coffee, her eyes never leaving her daughter. "She’s lived in three different apartments since we left Chicago, Callum. Small places. Drafty places where the neighbors were loud. She learned early that staying quiet was the easiest way to feel safe."
Callum felt a sharp, physical pain behind his ribs—a cold tightening that had nothing to do with the Kanes or the Syndicate, and everything to do with the realization that his own child had spent her first two years of life hiding from the world because of his name.
"Why didn't you go to New York, Iris?" he asked. "I had people there. I had accounts established that your brother could have accessed without my mother ever knowing."
"Because I didn't trust anyone with your name attached to them, Callum," she said, looking up, her brown eyes fierce and uncompromising. "The day I left, I realized that every single dollar you own has a drop of someone’s blood on it. My father spent forty years waking up at four in the morning to bake bread for the people on Taylor Street. He never took a nickel that didn't belong to him. When your mother threatened him, he didn't even fight back. He just looked at me and said, 'Iris, the Voss family isn't human. They're a business. And you can't love a business.'"
She leaned forward, her hands tightening around the ceramic mug. "I came back to Chicago three weeks ago because my father’s heart is failing. He’s in a hospice facility in Oak Park, Callum. The medical bills cleared out whatever savings I had left from my job in Des Moines. I was crossing Michigan Avenue today to go to an interview for a data entry position at a logistics firm. I didn't know you were getting married today. I didn't know your convoy was on that street. I was just trying to find a way to pay for my father’s oxygen."
Callum stood up slowly, lifting Wren into his arms with a practiced ease that looked entirely natural despite his large, violent frame. He walked over to the wide glass window, looking out at the white mist rolling off the lake water.
"Your father’s bills are paid, Iris," Callum said, his voice flat and absolute. "As of five minutes ago, I had Marcus wire half a million to the Oak Park facility. He’s being transferred to a private suite with twenty-four-hour care by the time the noon shift changes."
Iris didn't thank him. She closed her eyes, a long, shaky breath escaping her lips. "That’s how you fix everything, isn't it? With a wire transfer. With a threat. With a car door slamming."
"It’s how I keep people alive, Iris," Callum said, turning back to face her. "The Kanes aren't going to let this go. Vivienne’s father, Arthur Kane, is a proud man. He’s also a dying man, which makes him twice as dangerous. He wanted this merger to secure his family’s position before his captains turned on his sons. By walking out of that cathedral today, I didn't just insult his daughter—I left his entire organization exposed to the winter elements. He will move on us, Iris. And he will start with the people who made me turn my car around."
Before Iris could answer, the heavy oak door of the sunroom clicked open. Marcus entered, his face grim under the bright white light of the glass roof.
"Boss," Marcus said, standing at attention near the doorway. "Arthur Kane just called a meeting of the six captains at the Drake Hotel. He’s requested your presence. He says if you aren't in the ballroom by three o'clock, he’s going to authorize his enforcement crews to clear the Taylor Street sector by any means necessary."
Callum didn't hesitate. He walked over to Iris, gently placing Wren back into her arms. The child let out a small, disappointed sound as she lost her grip on his silver watch.
"Stay here," Callum told Iris, his fingers coming down to rest on her shoulder for a brief, heavy second. "Marcus is leaving ten men from the inner circle inside the house. The perimeter cameras are live. Nobody enters these gates unless they want to become a permanent part of the garden."
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"Callum," Iris caught his wrist, her brown eyes wide with a sudden, primitive terror. "Don't go to that hotel. It’s a slaughterhouse."
Callum managed a cold, tight smile, his gray eyes catching the winter light of the glass roof. "They built that ballroom with my family’s money, Iris. If it’s a slaughterhouse, I’m the one who owns the knives."
