Chapter 7 - Victor Hale
Victor Hale was Chicago royalty without the crown.
Banking.
Real estate.
Private equity.
Charities.
His name appeared on hospital wings and university buildings.
According to Dante, it also appeared in places newspapers never saw.
“My father did business with him.”
Dante placed Victor’s photograph on the table.
“So did Gabriel.”
“And my father?”
“Apparently.”
I studied the man who had watched Nolan drag me across the ballroom.
“Why would someone like Victor care about me?”
Dante opened the files from locker 418.
“Because your father hid something.”
“What?”
“We haven’t found it.”
That afternoon, I did something Nolan never expected.
I went to the police.
Not alone.
Dante arranged for a lawyer named Rebecca Sloan to meet me at a precinct far from his territory.
I photographed my bruises.
I gave a statement.
I described every incident I could remember.
The first shove.
The first apology.
The first time Nolan locked the door and took my phone.
The night he punched the wall beside my head.
The morning he cried and promised therapy.
The night I realized the apologies were part of the same cycle.
I expected shame.
Instead, with every sentence, I felt something leaving me.
Nolan’s ownership.
When I finished, Rebecca closed her notebook.
“You did well.”
I hated those words.
“I stayed for two years.”
“You survived for two years.”
I looked away.
Outside the precinct, Dante waited inside a black sedan.
He did not ask what I said.
He only asked one thing.
“Are you hungry?”
I laughed despite myself.
“Yes.”
We ate pancakes at a twenty-four-hour diner.
The oldest alleged mafia boss in Chicago sat across from me drinking terrible coffee while I drowned waffles in syrup.
For twenty minutes, I almost felt normal.
Then his phone rang.
Marco.
Dante listened.
His face hardened.
“What happened?”
He ended the call.
“Nolan disappeared.”
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“Did Victor take him?”
Dante looked toward the window.
“Maybe.”
Then his phone buzzed again.
A photograph arrived.
Nolan was tied to a chair.
Blood ran from his eyebrow.
A handwritten sign hung around his neck.
THE GIRL FOR THE BOY.
My stomach turned.
Underneath was an address.
And a deadline.
May you like
Midnight.
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