“His?” he questioned.
“We do not know,” she said sternly. “But we will soon. She’s closer every minute.”
“I am?” I asked. The pain wasn’t nearly as intense as it had been.
The sky was still bright, yet the clock on the stand read after eight at night. I’d been in labor for over sixteen hours and actively pushing for two when the decision was made that the baby must arrive. The tapping of the baby’s heartbeat coming from the monitor had slowed.
It went without saying that any previous or future course of action would be decided without my approval. Truly, I wasn’t thinking straight. The exhaustion was all-consuming. Though I wasn’t in a position to make my opinion known, I tried.
“Hospital?” I asked Irina.
“Shh, child, it will all be all right. Close your eyes.”
“Save my baby,” I pleaded. “If it’s me or my child, do what Andros said.” My eyelids grew heavy and my words formed slowly. It was difficult to make my lips and tongue cooperate. My last plea to the kind woman who looked after me came in a whisper. “Please take care of my baby.”
Patrick
Present day
Romero drove along the streets of Chicago, taking Sparrow and I from the tower in the sky to the mansion in Lincoln Park. The limestone monstrosity held the original command center of the Sparrow outfit—Allister Sparrow’s inner sanctum, his office within. The night Allister met his demise, Mason, Reid, Sparrow, and I began our search of everything related to the outfit.
Search.
Discover.
Remove.
Today, that same office was the shell of what it had been during Allister’s reign. At the time, Sparrow wanted it all, including the giant wood desk. That desk now sits in Sparrow’s office on the first floor of the penthouse. The reams of incriminating documents were scanned for us and destroyed so others wouldn’t learn their secrets. Within those scans were the answers we hoped to find.
“We’re five minutes away, Molly,” Sparrow said into his phone.
Molly was Genevieve Sparrow’s most trusted employee and longtime house manager. The woman deserved saint status for the years she put up with Sparrow’s mother.
“Inform my mother we’re arriving shortly.” His head shook. “Her schedule can make an exception for her son.” With that, Sparrow disconnected the call.
My lips curled upward. “Five-minute warning shot.”
Sparrow shrugged. “It’s written in stone that Genevieve Sparrow never leaves the house before 10:00 a.m. Waiting to announce my arrival at 9:55 mandates that she’ll be available to see me.”
I feigned shock. “Someone refuses an audience with Sterling Sparrow?”
“More like the other way. As much as I loathe the woman, she’s still my mother and has been at this longer than I have. She has first- and secondhand knowledge that would take us much longer to learn.”
My thoughts went to what Madeline had mentioned about her parents’ car crash. Could it be possible that Mrs. Sparrow had any knowledge of Allister’s conquests and attempts at ridding himself of unwanted heirs?
I worked to separate the man at my side from his father. I owed that to him. If I couldn’t separate Sparrow from Allister, Madeline would deserve the same. Neither did. The only thing either shared with that evil man was blood.
I focused on the surroundings: the tree-lined streets and freshly shoveled sidewalks. Above us was a clear sky. The unusually cloud-free winter morning’s sunlight reflected off the frost- covered fences and trees as if they’d been sprinkled with glitter. It was impossible from the street to have any notion of the decisions and depravity that went on in many of these homes over the years. Allister’s consigliere, Rudy Carlson, lived near the Sparrows. His wife, Martha, still resided there. Essentially her financial status was Sparrow’s gift to his mother—maintaining the status of her friend. The death of her husband near the time of Allister’s death was essential to our coup.
The Sparrow outfit had sat behind these mansion walls and sentenced women and children to death by exploitation. Yes, some like Madeline and Jana had survived, but the list of others who didn’t would never be complete.
Romero pulled the car up the driveway, coming to a stop before Mrs. Sparrow’s home.
Walking together, Sparrow and I stilled on the front step. Without knocking, the door opened from within. The woman in a maid’s uniform smiled. “Mr. Sparrow, Mr. Kelly, I’ll let Mrs. Sparrow know you’ve arrived. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Molly,” Sparrow said as we both stepped onto the marble floor of the foyer and the door was closed to the outside world. Without another word, Molly disappeared down a corridor to the left.
Everything about this mansion oozed regality, from the staircase before us that twisted with landings on the second and third floors, to the sitting room to our right and the lead-glass doors through which we’d just entered. Three stories above, a crystal chandelier shone. The marble entry was alive with rainbows dancing through prisms from both the sunlight through the doors and the chandelier above.
“This way, gentlemen,” Molly said as she reappeared, gesturing us down the corridor from which she’d just returned.
Through a parlor, dining room, and hallway we were led until we came to a stop at the entry to the atrium. Sitting at a small table with a dainty cup and saucer was Sterling’s mother. Dressed immaculately as if she’d been anticipating our visit, she turned our way. The overly sweet scent of her perfume grew stronger as we approached.
“Sterling, Mr. Kelly,” she said, feigning a smile.
It was no secret that Genevieve Sparrow was not a fan of her son’s inner circle. Perhaps it was that Allister’s men came from at least the perception of money. Reid, Mason, and I were—in her eyes—leeches her son had acquired while in the army. Perhaps she blamed her husband’s demise on our influence. If she did, it proved she knew very little about her own son.
Sterling Sparrow sought advice from the three of us, but decisions were his and his alone.
Mrs. Sparrow gestured to two other chairs at the table. “Please, have a seat.”
My gaze went momentarily to Sparrow, wondering if the delicate chairs would hold our weight. It wasn’t that either of us was heavy. It was that the chairs with their frail frames and woven cane seats looked like they were designed in another time for smaller people.
“Gentlemen,” Molly said, “may I bring you something to eat or drink?”
“Oh, Molly,” Mrs. Sparrow replied, “I’m certain my son doesn’t have time for that. He hardly has time for his own mother. He can’t give me more than five minutes’ notice of his arrival.” She turned to Sparrow as he pulled back a chair and gingerly sat. “Did it ever occur to you that I had plans?”
“Do you?”
“Do I?”
“Have plans?” he clarified.
“Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting some of the ladies for lunch today at the tea room.”
“It’s ten in the morning. I think you’ll make it.”
After taking a sip of her tea, she placed the cup upon the saucer. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Will I be able to tell my friends that I will finally have a grandchild?”
My eyes widened as I too sat, avoiding Sparrow’s expression. Technically, Ruby was Allister’s grandchild. It would be a cold day in hell when Genevieve made that connection with anything other than repulsion.
“Not today,” Sparrow replied.
“Of course not. That wife of yours is too busy with her business and foundation. There was a time when women in the position she’s acquired through marrying you would do what was expected and acceptable. I’m certain you must realize that her foundation does nothing but stir up things better left untouched?”
Recently, a client of the Sparrow Institute wrote a bestselling book about her experience as a victim of sex trafficking. She’d bravely named names. Perhaps it was the arrest of Rubio McFadden that gave her the str
ength to name him; however, his wasn’t the only name she gave. The media ran with it and the tremors were felt throughout the city of Chicago and beyond.
No doubt, Mrs. Sparrow’s concerns weren’t for the McFadden outfit, but that if this woman could write a book like that, so could someone associated with Allister Sparrow.
When Sparrow didn’t reply, she added, “Are you prepared for that negative PR?”
“Mother,” Sparrow said, refusing to take the bait against Araneae. “I called you the other day about Marion Elliott’s bid to renew the tax break he’d acquired for a facility in McKinley Park. Closing that facility would result in the loss of nearly six hundred jobs. With the recent loss of seasonal jobs, Chicago’s employment numbers will take a hit.”
“Yes, yes, we’re aware.” She was speaking of the aldermen of Chicago, the governing body who reported to the mayor. “This wouldn’t be an issue if you’d left well enough alone. Now, signing off on anything that was previously associated with Rubio is a bad publicity move.”
“Since when do you care about publicity?”
Her lips pursed. “This whole atmosphere is toxic. With the mayor up for reelection, the new mayor could decide it’s time to clean out the old guard. No alderman position is ensured.”
“Toxic?” I asked.
“Well, yes. Things worked so much better the way it used to be.”
Sparrow’s head shook. “So are you telling me there is absolutely no plan for the council to approve Marion Elliott?”
“No. It’s dead in the water. A shame really. I’ve met him a few times over the years. He’s such a nice man.”
This time it was me who had a physical reaction to her assessment. Thinking that anyone would characterize Elliott as a nice man made the breakfast I’d eaten with everyone in Sparrow’s kitchen roil in my gut.
“Mother, there are a few available facilities in Bedford Park that would accommodate Elliott’s tenant. The sizes are right, and a few of the facilities don’t need much in the way of renovation. What are the chances that the council would approve the tenant moving with the tax breaks they are about to lose intact and signing a lease? Chicago would keep the jobs and it would bring life back to an abandoned facility.”
“And abandon another,” she said.
“It will be abandoned anyway. The company is leaving if they can’t get the tax breaks. Feelers have been put out for out of state. Wisconsin and Indiana have made competing offers. Wouldn’t it be better if the company stayed here?”
“I suppose it was Mr. Elliott who worked with Rubio, not the tech company. Would Mr. Elliott be excluded from the deal?”
“That is the plan.”
“Hmm,” she hummed as she took another drink of her tea.
“Can you bring it up to the other aldermen and get back to me?”
“Sterling, if you want it so badly, you have the power to make it happen.” She lowered her cup to the saucer.
“I’m using that power here and now,” he said, “without a direct trail to me.”
Genevieve lifted the small teapot from the table and poured more tea into her cup. Her eyes, the color of her son’s, gazed from Sterling to me. “Are we done?”
“Mrs. Sparrow,” I began, “are you or were you at all familiar with the Charitable Heart Mission in Englewood?”
Her lips formed a straight line as she stared my direction. “I believe it closed a few years ago.”
“Do you know why?” Sparrow asked.
“It, like others, lost funding as I recall.”
“The grant that had funded it was from the city,” I said.
“Yes, it was a pet project of one of the elder aldermen.” She turned to Sparrow. “Certainly you know him. He sometimes went by the name Miller, which was quite fun.” She leaned forward as if she were telling a secret. “You see, his name was Millstone.”
“Millstone?” I asked.
“Jerry Millstone?” Sparrow asked.
“Yes, yes. He had a few of those projects around the city. I believe that the Charitable Heart Mission was run by a young couple. I’m not privy to the reasoning, but I believe it was after your father passed that the young couple moved away. With no one else to run it to Jerry’s specifications, we discontinued funding.”
“Jerry Millstone went by the name Miller?” Sterling asked.
Mrs. Sparrow waved her hand. “Oh, it was a while ago. I know you wouldn’t care, but Jerry was a friend of your father’s—if your father could be said to have had friends. They were acquaintances. I remember his wife, Wendy. I believe they left Chicago; it was before the whole McFadden fiasco. They moved to California to be closer to their children.” She reached over to Sparrow’s arm. “Not all of us are lucky enough to have our children close.”
“Speaking of friends of my father,” Sparrow said, placing his elbows on the table and bringing the tips of his fingers together, “did he ever father children with any of his mistresses?”
Mrs. Sparrow’s eyes widened as she choked on her tea. “Sterling Sparrow, why would you even ask such a question?”
“Let me just say that recent events have caused me to be curious.”
Her bony fingers came to the table as she pushed her chair back and stood. “This is not a topic of conversation that a son discusses with his mother.”
“Then who should I ask? Did he keep a journal of women and children? Who would you suggest I go to who will have the answers?”
“No one,” she replied defiantly. “There are no other children. Sterling, you are your father’s sole heir. You never need to worry about that. If anyone ever tried to make a claim on your assets, I can assure you that party would be a gold-digging liar.”
My tongue was on the verge of severing from the pressure I was applying with my teeth.
Was I tasting blood?
“How can you be so certain?” Sparrow asked. “Allister Sparrow wasn’t exactly known for his monogamy.”
Something like a huff came from Mrs. Sparrow. “Sterling, we lived in a different time. Such as I said before, today’s world is toxic. Back in the day, we took care of things.”
“Who took care of things?” I asked.
“Abortions?” Sparrow asked.
“Yes. Your father wasn’t alone in his needs. Other men—Rudy, Rubio, and Wendell, just to name a few—had the reputation. As wives and mothers, we women made sure things stayed…shall I say, acceptable.”
“Through what means?” Sparrow asked, standing, his presence dwarfing that of his mother.
“Whatever means necessary, Sterling,” she answered with her neck and shoulders set. “Instead of glaring at me, you should thank me. You won’t have some bastard coming and claiming part of what is yours. Allister made his place in this world with the help of money I brought to our marriage. I would not allow his wandering to affect what was my son’s.”
“Mother, what are you saying?”
She shook her head. “I’m saying nothing more. We women had our ways.”
I stood. “Car accidents?”
Her neck straightened. “Excuse me, Mr. Kelly, I don’t believe this concerns you.” She took a step back. “You may think I’m blind. My blindness was self-imposed. I didn’t want to know all of your father’s doings or even what you do. However, if either of you are going to point at me for cleaning up messes, you should look in the mirror. We can be called many things, but saints without blemishes wouldn’t be one.” She sucked in her breath. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for my luncheon engagement.”
“Does the name Alycia Tate ring a bell?” Sparrow asked.
She lifted her chin. “I didn’t try to commit any to memory.”
“She would have been pregnant about the same time as you.”
Mrs. Sparrow’s head shook. “I had a difficult pregnancy. I understood that your father had needs I couldn’t satisfy…I won’t say anything else.”
She turned to walk away but stilled when Sparrow spoke. “Mother, tell me
the truth. Are you saying that you called for the car accident, not my father?”
Genevieve spun toward us. “Your father was too busy with his next whore to worry about his last. It was a full-time job securing your future. I did it. I’d do it again.” She nodded her head. “I will need to ask you both to leave.”
Madeline
The cellular phone Patrick had given to me this morning before breakfast sat upon the kitchen counter. Its presence pulled my attention away from the laptop. Technology was at my fingertips, and yet it wasn’t. Somehow, I didn’t care. Similar to the iPad that had been given to Ruby, the laptop allowed me to search and read but not interact. Since all of my personal accounts had been set up by Andros’s people, they were now out of my reach. The telephone only gave me access to the people in Patrick’s inner circle.
Truly, I wasn’t upset about the lack of connectivity.
I wanted no part in alerting Andros or Marion of my location.
The only people who contacted me through those other accounts were those associated with Andros and Marion and of course, Ruby. Since my daughter was curled up on the sofa, wearing headphones and watching a movie on an iPad, I didn’t need remote access to her.
Many times I found myself staring at her across the room.
It was surreal that we were together and safe.
I couldn’t recall another time in her sixteen and a half years that I’d felt this way.
Strangely, having everything right made me tired.
I realized that I should be energized, but that wasn’t the way I felt.
It was as if a nearly seventeen-year marathon had finally come to the finish line. My energy to fight and resist was depleted. I’d run a good race, one that wasn’t without pitfalls and mistakes, yet I’d succeeded, crossing the finish line.
No matter what happened to me or in the future, I believed that Ruby was finally safe.
“Mom?”
I looked away from whatever was on the laptop, turning back to Ruby. “What, honey?”
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