Chapter 1 - THE GLASS EYE
Victor Romano watched the hidden camera feed with his finger resting on the trigger beneath his desk.
Not on the desk.
Beneath it.
That was how little trust remained in him.
The office around him was bulletproof, soundproof, and lined with dark walnut panels that smelled faintly of polish, tobacco, and old money. Rain turned downtown Chicago into streaks of black glass beyond the reinforced windows, blurring the lights of the river and the hard edges of the skyline. On the wall behind him hung framed newspaper clippings about port development, union negotiations, charity donations, and one carefully worded headline about “alleged organized crime influence” that never named him directly because journalists in Chicago still understood survival.
On his desk sat three things:
A tumbler of twenty-year-old Macallan he had not touched.
A loaded Glock within arm's reach.
An encrypted tablet showing his seven-year-old son’s bedroom.
Leo Romano lay in bed beneath a navy blanket printed with constellations. His silver wheelchair waited beside the window. The nightlight, shaped like a crescent moon, cast a soft amber glow across his pale face and dark curls. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, empty in the way Victor had learned to hate more than any threat from an enemy.
For fourteen months, his son had not spoken a single word.
Not after the crash. Not after the three surgeries. Not after the parade of expensive specialists Victor bought or threatened.
The official police report called it a tragic hit-and-run on Lake Shore Drive. Victor knew better. A heavy black SUV had rammed his armored Caddy into the concrete barrier. His wife, Clara, died instantly. Victor survived with broken ribs and glass in his shoulder. Leo suffered catastrophic spinal trauma.
Paralyzed from the waist down.
The doctors called his silence a psychological trauma response. Victor called it theft. Someone had stolen his wife, his son’s legs, his son’s voice, and the last human softness inside his chest.
That was why he had installed the cameras.
Military-grade micro lenses placed by a private contractor from Silicon Valley who asked no questions. One lived inside the glass eye of a vintage teddy bear on the shelf. Another inside the smoke detector. A third embedded in the spine of a leather-bound copy of Treasure Island.
Nobody knew. Not Dante Calderon, his underboss of fifteen years. Not the estate guards. Not his fiancée, Meline Hart—a senator’s daughter with honey-blonde hair, white silk blouses, and a smile polished for charity galas.
And certainly not Norah Hayes.
Norah was twenty-six, a former pediatric nurse disgraced by allegations of stealing restricted pain meds from Rush University Medical Center. The charges never stuck, but her career was ruined. To most employers, she was a liability. To Victor, she was controllable. No family, no power, no protection.
He had hired her two weeks ago, promising to break her if she crossed him.
On screen, Norah entered the room. She was wearing her gray apron, copper-brown hair pinned back. She sat beside Leo’s bed, taking his small, frail hand in hers.
"Do you think Jim Hawkins was brave today, Leo?" Norah whispered softly, her voice carrying through the hidden microphone. "Or was he just scared and moving anyway?"
Leo didn't answer. But he didn't pull his hand away either.
Victor leaned closer to the monitor. Then, the heavy oak bedroom door opened on screen.
Meline stepped into the frame, carrying a silver tray with a small porcelain bowl.
"Carrot purée today," Meline said smoothly, her eyes glittering. "The chef made it especially smooth for our little prince."
Norah stood up immediately. Her shoulders went rigid. "Thank you, Miss Hart. I can feed him."
"Make sure he eats every drop," Meline smiled, touching Leo’s cheek with a manicured finger before turning and walking out, closing the door behind her.
The moment the door latched shut, Norah did something that made Victor’s blood run cold.
She walked to the door and locked the deadbolt.
Victor’s fingers tightened on the trigger beneath his desk. No one locks doors in my house.
On screen, Norah didn't pick up the spoon. She pulled a sterile syringe, a glass vial, and a plastic dropper from her apron pocket. Victor's vision narrowed. The disgraced nurse. The stolen meds.
He reached for his phone to order Dante to execute her.
Then, Norah did the impossible.
She didn't touch Leo. She drew a sample of the orange purée into the syringe and dropped it into the vial. She added two drops of clear liquid and shook it gently.
Within five seconds, the orange purée turned deep, pitch black.
Norah’s breath hitched. "No," she whispered.
Leo’s eyes shifted toward her—wide, terrified, and painfully alive.
May you like
Norah dropped to her knees beside the bed, wrapping her arms around the trembling boy. "I know," she sobbed into his hair. "I know she’s poisoning you. I won't let them hurt you anymore, Leo. I promise."
In his bulletproof office, Victor Romano stopped breathing.
