Chapter 4: The Secrets in the Floorboards
Chapter 4: The Secrets in the Floorboards
The Callaway Mansion was eerily quiet when Victor returned at 7:30 AM. The rain had stopped, leaving the brick driveway gleaming like obsidian under the pale morning sun. The grand foyer, where Emily had stood just twenty-four hours ago to alter the course of his life, felt empty—haunted by the ghost of a woman who had spent three years ensuring the house ran like clockwork while its master ruled an empire from the shadows.
Victor walked upstairs to his private study. He bypassed the large mahogany desk, the leather chairs, and the rows of historical texts until he reached the corner near the heavy velvet drapes. He knelt on the Persian rug, pulling it back to reveal the old brass dial of the floor safe his father had installed in 1984.
He placed his fingers on the cold metal dial.
Four... eight... two... nine... nine.
The internal mechanism clicked with a heavy, satisfying thud. Victor pulled the heavy iron door upward. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, was not money, nor was it a collection of diamonds or deeds. It was a thick, leather-bound journal with yellowed pages, and beside it, a small, worn plastic rosary with a silver crucifix.
Victor opened the journal to the last entry written by his father, Thomas Callaway, just weeks before he died in a rival ambush twenty years ago. His eyes scanned the rough, sweeping handwriting:
"To my son, Victor. If you are reading this, it means the world has forced you to become the lion. You will rule Chicago because I taught you how to fight, but remember this: a empire built only on blood is a prison with gold bars. The true strength of the Callaway name doesn't lie in the men who carry the guns; it lies in the people who keep the city alive when the lights go out. Find someone who sees you when you are invisible, Victor. Find someone who doesn't fear your shadow, but walks through it. That is the person who will save your soul."
Victor let out a long, ragged breath. He picked up the plastic rosary. It didn't belong to his father. He flipped it over and saw a small label taped to the back with a name written in faded blue ink: Emily Parker - Age 7.
She hadn't just discovered the safe recently. She had found it years ago, perhaps during her first week of cleaning, when she was trying to find a safe place to keep her most precious childhood possession away from the other staff, or perhaps she had found it open when Victor had left it unlocked in a moment of distraction. She had left her rosary there—a silent token of her presence, a marker that she knew exactly who he was, and that she was praying for the man who lived in the center of the storm.
His phone rang again. It was Dominic, calling from the hospital vehicle.
May you like
"Victor, her intracranial pressure is spiking," Dominic said, his voice tight with urgency. "The doctors are talking about an emergency craniotomy to relieve the fluid, but they aren't sure her heart can sustain another major procedure. You need to get here now if you want to say goodbye."
Victor didn't answer. He slammed the safe shut, gripped the small plastic rosary tightly in his fist, and ran down the grand staircase of his mansion for the second time that night.
