Chapter 5 - The Glass Room
At 7:05 AM, the peace of Lake Forest was shattered by the sound of a three-ton armored Escalade smashing through the wrought-iron front gates of the Whitmore estate.
The iron doors buckled and tore free from their stone pillars, crushed beneath the heavy bumper as the convoy roared up the brick driveway.
Four private security guards in black uniforms stepped out from the main entrance, pulling sidearms.
Bear didn't slow down. He veered onto the lawn, spraying gravel, while two sedans behind them stopped to deploy six of William’s most trusted men.
Gunfire erupted across the manicured lawn.
William stepped out of the Escalade before it had even come to a complete stop, his long coat swinging behind him. In his hand was a heavy black pistol. He walked up the stone steps with calm, measured grace, entirely unbothered by the chaos surrounding him.
A security guard lunged from behind a stone pillar. William raised his weapon without breaking stride and fired twice. The guard collapsed onto the marble steps.
Bear kicked open the grand mahogany front doors.
The interior of the mansion was vast, lined with expensive oil paintings, marble statues, and crystal chandeliers.
Standing at the top of the grand staircase, wearing a silk robe and holding a revolver, was Richard Whitmore.
“Castellano!” Richard screamed, his face twisted in rage and panic. “Have you lost your mind?! You’re stepping onto private property! My security force will cut you to pieces!”
“Your security force is already dead or running, Richard,” William said smoothly, stepping onto the bottom stair. “Where is your wife?”
Richard’s hand trembled on the gun. “Get out of my house! If you take one more step, I’ll call the FBI!”
William looked up at him with cold pity. “Call them. Tell them William Castellano is standing in your foyer. Tell them to bring a coroner.”
Richard panicked, raising his revolver to pull the trigger.
William fired once.
The heavy round caught Richard in the right shoulder, shattering his collarbone. Richard shrieked, dropping the gun and tumbling down the carpeted stairs until he landed at William’s feet, groaning in agony.
William didn't even look down at him. He walked past the bleeding executive, heading toward the east wing of the second floor.
He knew where to look. Houses built by monsters always had a room where the light didn't reach.
At the end of the east hallway, behind a locked reinforced door, William found the medical suite.
It was a sterile, brightly lit glass room that looked like an intensive care unit. Inside were two hospital beds.
In one bed lay Julian Whitmore—a pale, emaciated nine-year-old boy hooked up to an IV drip and a heart monitor.
In the second bed sat Margaret Whitmore. She was forty-five years old, impeccably dressed in a tailored cream suit, holding a stainless-steel tray containing surgical needles, bone marrow aspiration kits, and sterile vials.
When William kicked the glass door open, Margaret didn't scream. She simply stood there, holding a syringe, her eyes cold, blue, and completely devoid of humanity.
“You’re late,” Margaret said, her voice unnaturally calm. “Arthur was supposed to deliver the girl hours ago.”
William walked into the sterile room. The sharp smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol filled his nostrils.
He looked at the stainless-steel tray. He looked at the heavy extraction needles designed for pediatric procedure.
“She ran away,” William said softly.
Margaret frowned, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her manicured brows. “Ran away? That’s impossible. Her mother was paid. The paperwork was complete.”
“She’s eight years old, Margaret,” William said, stepping closer until he was standing right across the steel tray from her. “She ran through two miles of freezing rain barefoot because she knew you were going to kill her.”
Margaret scoffed, throwing the syringe onto the tray with a loud CLANG. “Kill her? Don't be melodramatic. We were saving my son! Julian has a rare genetic disorder! Do you know what it costs to maintain his life?! Millions!”
She looked at William with genuine disgust, as if he were an uneducated child who didn't understand basic economics.
“Those children... they were nobodies!” Margaret spat. “Their mothers were addicts and gamblers who didn't care if they lived or died! We gave them food, clean clothes, pink curtains! We paid fifty thousand dollars for that girl! She was an asset!”
William stared at her. He had met hitmen, mob bosses, extortionists, and murderers who had committed horrific acts for money or power.
But Margaret Whitmore was something far worse. She was a mother who believed that wealthy children had souls, and poor children were merely spare parts.
“Where is the blue-shoe girl?” William asked, his voice dropping to a low, terrifying whisper.
Margaret hesitated, a flicker of genuine nervousness entering her eyes for the first time. “She... she suffered a cardiac arrest during an extraction two months ago. Her body couldn't handle the frequency.”
“Where did you put her, Margaret?”
“She was cremated,” Margaret said coldly. “There’s nothing left.”
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William reached across the tray, grabbed Margaret by her throat, and lifted her off her feet, slamming her against the reinforced glass wall.
“You’re going to tell me where her ashes are,” William growled into her face, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying flame. “Because if you don't... I will burn this house down with you inside it.”
