Chapter 5 - The Glass Fortress
The transformation of the east wing began the moment Eleanor walked back into the estate.
Santiago kept his word. By dawn, three moving vans had delivered rolls of sage-green carpets, jade velvet armchairs, and soft amber lamps. Eleanor systematically purged every item of harsh blue decor from Sophia’s suite, replacing the clinical hospital beds with warm, plush textures.
When Eleanor opened the door to the demolished bedroom, Sophia was still huddled in the corner, pale and shivering.
The moment the girl’s swollen eyes saw Eleanor, a sound tore from her chest—a raw, strangled gasp that sounded like a wounded fawn. She scrambled across the floor on hands and knees, throwing her arms around Eleanor’s waist and burying her face in her stomach.
Eleanor sank to the carpet, wrapping her arms tightly around the trembling girl, whispering softly in rhythmic cadences. Santiago stood in the hallway, watching through the crack in the door, forbidden from entering. His chest ached with a strange, twisting pain—a mixture of agonizing jealousy and overwhelming relief.
Within an hour, Sophia had drunk two glasses of electrolyte water and eaten a bowl of warm broth from Eleanor’s hand.
By the end of the first week, a routine had formed. Eleanor conducted three hours of intense cognitive therapy each morning, using tactile art, specialized kinetic sand, and sign language. In the afternoons, they walked through the enclosed greenhouse gardens on the estate grounds, Eleanor teaching Sophia complex signs for emotions she had locked away for seven years: *Betrayal. Rage. Longing.*
Santiago found himself haunting the second-floor corridor at odd hours.
One evening, he watched Eleanor teaching Sophia at the mahogany table in the library. Eleanor’s laugh was soft, her face illuminated by the green banker's lamp. For the first time in his life, the cold, blood-soaked mausoleum Santiago called home felt alive.
As Sophia ran to the shelves to find an art book, Eleanor stepped out into the gallery. She found Santiago leaning against the balustrade, holding two cups of black coffee.
"She ate dinner," Santiago said quietly, offering her a mug.
"She had two roasted quail and roasted vegetables," Eleanor smiled, taking the cup. Her fingers brushed his, and Santiago noticed how delicate her wrists were beneath her rolled-up sleeves. "She’s gaining weight. Her cognitive response time has increased by thirty percent."
"You're a miracle worker, Dr. Vance."
"Call me Eleanor. 'Dr. Vance' is a woman who watched her brother die in a fire." Her voice dipped into a somber shadow.
Santiago looked at her profile. "I sent three of my best men to Boston yesterday. We found the two Valenti soldiers who tossed the Molotov cocktails into your clinic three years ago."
Eleanor’s hand jerked, nearly spilling the coffee. She stared at him, her eyes wide. "What did you do?"
"They are at the bottom of Lake Michigan," Santiago said without an ounce of remorse. "Nobody touches what belongs under my roof. You saved my sister. You gave me back a reason to come home. Consider it a down payment on my gratitude."
Eleanor looked at him, caught between horror at his casual brutality and an intoxicating sense of safety she hadn't felt in three years.
"You can't solve every wound with a bullet, Santiago," she whispered.
"In my world, Eleanor, bullets are the only bandages that hold."
Before she could reply, Sophia burst out of the library, holding a charcoal sketch she had just finished. Her hands were trembling violently. She thrust the paper toward Eleanor, her eyes wide with terror.
Eleanor looked at the sketch. Santiago stepped behind her to look over her shoulder.
The drawing depicted a rainy night. Two figures lay on the floor in pools of black charcoal blood. A young girl hid behind a heavy oak sideboard. But standing in the doorway, holding a smoking revolver, wasn't a stranger wearing a ski mask.
It was a man with a distinct silver dragon signet ring on his thumb.
May you like
Santiago felt the blood drain from his face. That ring belonged to only one person in Chicago: Dario Moretti. Santiago’s own uncle, the second-in-command of the Moretti crime syndicate.
***
