Chapter 2 - The Sound of the Roar
“Who the hell are you talking to, Willow?” Lucas demanded, slamming the glass door shut behind him to muffle the bass-heavy orchestra inside. He strode toward her, his patent-leather dress shoes clicking sharply on the slate terrace floor. “Hang up the damn phone. Right now.”
Willow didn’t blink. She lowered the screen, her thumb ending the call, and slipped the device into the pocket of her tailored evening wrap. “Get away from me, Lucas.”
“Get away from you?” A cruel, disbelieving laugh escaped his throat. He stopped three feet away, swaying slightly from the bourbon, adjusting his diamond cufflinks. “You made a fool of me in front of the city’s entire political and financial elite. My father is talking about pulling the real estate underwriting for the Navy Pier redevelopment because my little shopkeeper wife couldn’t keep her trailer-park mouth shut!”
“Your father called me a barren tramp and insulted my family,” Willow said, her voice dropping into a register of frigid clarity she didn't know she possessed. “And you struck me. You put your hands on me.”
“Because you needed to be managed!” Lucas snarled, stepping into her personal space, his breath reeking of expensive scotch and raw entitlement. “You forgot who feeds you. You forgot who pulled you out of that grease pit in Oak Park and put half a million dollars of diamonds around your neck. You are a Sterling, Willow. You answer to my father, and you answer to me.”
He reached out, his fingers lunging to wrap violently around her wrist. “Now wipe that pathetic look off your face, fix your hair, and get back inside. You’re going to walk up to my father, apologize for your temper, and laugh off the champagne spill as an accident. If you don't, I swear to God I will dismantle your pathetic art gallery by sunrise.”
Willow yanked her arm back before his grip could close. “Don't you ever touch me again.”
Before Lucas could retaliate, the terrace doors flew open again. Richard Sterling stood framed against the ballroom light, holding a fresh tumbler of single malt, his expression completely devoid of warmth. Behind him, dozens of onlookers peered through the floor-to-ceiling glass, their eyes hungry for more drama.
“Lucas,” Richard’s dry, raspy voice cut through the cold air. “Stop negotiating with the help. Escort your wife back into the suite or remove her from the premises before the Tribune’s society columnist starts snapping pictures. We have an acquisition to announce at midnight.”
“You hear that?” Lucas hissed, leaning toward Willow. “You’re coming inside.”
“No,” Willow said softly. “I’m leaving.”
Lucas reached for her again, but before his fingers could graze her silk wrap, the distant sound of an engine reverberated off the limestone canyon of Michigan Avenue below. It wasn’t the purr of a German luxury sedan or the synthetic whisper of an electric hybrid. It was the deep, unyielding, industrial roar of an old eight-cylinder block.
Down on the hotel’s pristine front drive, tires screeched against wet pavement.
Lucas frowned, glancing over the stone balustrade. “What the hell is that racket?”
Down at the Peninsula’s white-glove entrance, an oxidized black 1994 Ford F-250 had pulled directly across the circular driveway, completely barricading three idling Maybachs and a Rolls-Royce Phantom. The Peninsula’s polished head valet rushed forward, waving his hands frantically, but the truck’s driver-side door swung open with a heavy metallic clang.
A man stepped out into the glare of the hotel lanterns.
He wore dark denim, heavy leather work boots, and an old oilskin duster coat over a faded flannel shirt. His hair was iron-gray, cropped neat and tight, and his posture held the terrifying, uncoiling discipline of a retired marine.
Michael Donovan didn't hand his keys to the valet. He didn't look at the luxury vehicles he had blocked. He simply turned his gaze toward the hotel’s glass revolving doors and walked inside.
The two private security guards posted by the Sterlings moved to stop him at the entrance. From thirty stories up, Willow watched in breathless silence as her father didn't even slow his stride. He spoke two words to the lead guard, flashed something small and brass from inside his jacket pocket, and the guard’s entire posture instantly collapsed. The security officer visibly paled, stepped backward, and opened the door with both hands, bowing his head in sudden, terrified deference.
“What is going on down there?” Lucas muttered, squinting over the ledge.
“My ride is here,” Willow said, turning her back on her husband.
She walked past Richard Sterling without acknowledging his presence. Richard grabbed her shoulder as she passed the threshold. “You step out of this room, girl, and you leave with nothing. Not a penny. Not a coat. Not a name.”
Willow turned her head slowly, looking directly into Richard’s cold, watery eyes. “Keep the name, Richard. It smells like rot anyway.”
She pulled her arm from his grip with enough force to stagger him into the orchid display. Gasps rippled through the onlookers as Willow walked straight down the center aisle of the ballroom, head held high, the red welt on her cheek glowing beneath the chandeliers like a badge of impending war.
When she reached the mezzanine elevators, the doors slid open before she could push the button.
Her father stepped out.
Michael Donovan took one look at his daughter—at the trembling hands, the ripped hem of her dress, and the distinct, swollen imprint of a hand across her cheekbone. His gray eyes darkened until they looked like cracked flint.
“Daddy,” she whispered.
Michael didn't ask questions. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He stepped forward, opened his heavy coat, and wrapped his arms around his daughter, shielding her completely from the prying eyes of Chicago's upper crust.
May you like
“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured into her hair, his voice vibrating with absolute protection. “Let’s go home. Tomorrow, we burn their kingdom to the ground.”
***
