Chapter 2 - The Ashes Under Her Desk
Desmond crushed the listening device beneath the heel of his shoe.
Beatrice immediately grabbed his wrist.
“Stop.”
He looked down at her hand.
She released him.
“We need it intact.”
“For what?”
“To find out who installed it.”
Desmond stared at the tiny transmitter.
“You already know.”
“I have a theory.”
“A name.”
“A theory.”
“Beatrice.”
“No.”
His patience vanished.
“You have spent five years sitting twenty feet away from me while knowing things men have died trying to learn. I trusted you with accounts, meetings, security schedules—”
“And apparently I deserved that trust.”
“You met Thomas Rourke.”
“To protect you.”
“That sentence is becoming increasingly difficult to believe.”
She lifted her chin.
“Then don't believe it.”
Desmond almost smiled.
Only Beatrice could stand in front of the most feared man in Chicago, admit she had lied to him, and then become annoyed because he questioned her explanation.
“Tell me what happened at the airfield.”
“I can't tell you everything.”
“Start with something.”
Beatrice walked toward the kitchen and poured water into a glass.
Her hands were finally trembling.
Desmond noticed.
Five years.
He had seen her negotiate with corrupt politicians, angry union representatives, federal investigators, and executives worth billions.
He had never seen her hands shake.
“Eight months ago,” she said, “I noticed irregularities in shipping schedules.”
“The same week we lost the Cicero contract.”
“Yes.”
“You said accounting error.”
“I lied.”
Desmond’s eyes narrowed.
“There’s that word again.”
“I was trying to determine where the information was going.”
“You could have told me.”
“And then what would you have done?”
“Fixed it.”
“You would have started investigating everyone.”
“Yes.”
“That was exactly what our traitor expected.”
Desmond said nothing.
Beatrice continued.
“Whoever is helping Rourke understands how you react. They know your security procedures. They know which people you trust. They know which systems you change first whenever there’s a leak.”
Desmond thought of the previous months.
Every response.
Every failed countermeasure.
“They were watching me react.”
“Yes.”
“And you decided not to tell me.”
“I decided the only way to find them was to let them believe no one had noticed.”
“Without discussing it with me.”
“Would you have agreed?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
Desmond gave her a cold look.
“That wasn’t permission.”
“No. It was logic.”
He hated when she was right.
“What did Rourke want?”
Beatrice walked to the fireplace.
“Access.”
“To what?”
“Something called the Dominion archive.”
Desmond’s expression changed.
Very few people knew that name.
The Dominion archive contained records created during his father’s rule.
Old ownership documents.
Private contracts.
Payment records.
Names.
Some represented businesses that had disappeared years ago.
Others belonged to men who were now judges, executives, and public officials.
If released publicly, those records could destroy reputations across Chicago.
Including Desmond’s.
“How does Rourke know about Dominion?”
“That’s the question I’ve been trying to answer.”
“And the letter?”
“He wanted access codes at midnight tomorrow.”
“You met him tonight.”
“I met one of his representatives.”
“Who?”
“He never gave his real name.”
“What did you give him?”
Beatrice hesitated.
Desmond stepped closer.
“What did you give him?”
“Codes.”
Silence.
Desmond’s face changed.
Beatrice quickly added, “Fake ones.”
“You gave Thomas Rourke access codes to my secure archive?”
“I gave him numbers that will trigger a mirrored server and record whoever tries to access it.”
Desmond stopped.
That was clever.
Dangerously clever.
“Who helped you build it?”
“Nathan in cybersecurity.”
Desmond’s expression turned lethal.
“You involved Nathan?”
“He thinks it’s a penetration test.”
“So he doesn’t know?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Desmond walked toward the window.
The river lights reflected across the glass.
“If someone inside my organization gave Rourke the name Dominion, we’re dealing with one of perhaps nine people.”
“Seven.”
He turned.
“Seven?”
“Two died.”
Desmond studied her.
“You’ve been investigating my people.”
“For six months.”
“My people.”
“Our people.”
The word escaped before she could correct herself.
Something shifted in the room.
Beatrice looked away.
Desmond did not.
For five years she had been his constant.
The first voice he heard most mornings.
The person who remembered how he took coffee.
The woman who could tell from a single glance when he wanted everyone removed from a room.
He had told himself she was an employee.
A trusted one.
Necessary.
Irreplaceable professionally.
Nothing more.
Tonight, sitting inside her apartment, he realized how much of his life had quietly begun revolving around the expectation that Beatrice Gallagher would always be there.
And someone was threatening her.
That thought made him angrier than the betrayal itself.
“What did the letter mean?” he asked.
Her expression hardened.
“Which part?”
“‘Your loyalty to him will get you killed.’”
Beatrice looked down.
“Rourke believes I’m the easiest path to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I know everything.”
“That isn’t why.”
Her eyes lifted.
Desmond moved toward her.
“He could bribe an accountant. Threaten a manager. Blackmail a politician. Why you?”
Beatrice remained silent.
Desmond suddenly understood.
“He knows.”
Her face revealed the answer.
“Knows what?”
“That you matter to me.”
Beatrice's breathing changed.
Neither spoke.
The admission had emerged before Desmond could stop it.
Not love.
Not yet.
But something dangerously close to truth.
Beatrice broke eye contact first.
“Rourke thinks you’ll make mistakes if he threatens me.”
“Would I?”
“Yes.”
Desmond almost asked how she could be so certain.
Then he remembered the fact that he had personally driven to her apartment rather than sending anyone else.
Apparently she was right.
“We need to leave.”
“This is my home.”
“It’s compromised.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“No.”
Desmond stared.
“No?”
“I’m not moving into one of your safe houses.”
“You prefer the apartment with listening devices?”
“I prefer making my own decisions.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“You can make the decision to come voluntarily or argue during the drive.”
She stared at him.
“That isn't a choice.”
“It contains two options.”
Beatrice almost laughed despite herself.
Then her phone vibrated.
Both of them looked at it.
Unknown number.
A message appeared.
Nice performance.
A second message.
Desmond wasn’t supposed to find the letter.
Then a photograph loaded.
Taken through Beatrice’s apartment window.
It showed both of them standing in the living room.
Someone was watching the building right now.
Desmond immediately pulled her away from the glass.
A third message arrived.
Midnight tomorrow. Bring the real codes. Come alone.
Then another.
Or Hayes learns why your father really died.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
Desmond felt it.
Her entire body became rigid.
“Your father?”
She shook her head.
“Beatrice.”
“Not here.”
“What happened to your father?”
She looked at the destroyed transmitter.
Then at the photograph.
Then finally at Desmond.
“My father worked for yours.”
Desmond’s expression changed.
“He was an accountant?”
“He was more than that.”
“What aren't you telling me?”
Beatrice swallowed.
“My father discovered something before he died.”
“What?”
She stared at him.
“Something your father buried.”
Desmond’s voice lowered.
“And Rourke knows?”
“Yes.”
“What did your father discover?”
Beatrice’s eyes filled with an emotion Desmond had never seen there before.
Grief.
“He discovered who built the criminal side of the Hayes empire.”
Desmond frowned.
“My father built it.”
“No.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“That’s what everyone was supposed to believe.”
She picked up her phone.
“The truth is much worse.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the windows, someone was still watching.
And Desmond suddenly understood that the war with Thomas Rourke had not begun eight months ago.
May you like
It had begun before Desmond ever inherited the Hayes name.
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