Chapter 3 - The Red Spider
Dr. Vance spent thirty minutes cleaning Sadie’s leg, placing six delicate stitches along her calf before wrapping her knee in a tight, supportive tensor bandage.
Throughout the procedure, Callum remained by the grand fireplace, pouring himself a fresh glass of uncut bourbon. He didn't drink it. He simply held the glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight.
When the doctor packed his equipment, Callum handed him an envelope filled with cash.
“Not a word of this, Vance,” Callum said quietly.
“I was never here, Mr. Russo,” the doctor replied smoothly, walking out through the private rear exit.
The study became quiet, save for the crackle of burning oak logs.
Sadie tried to sit up, adjusting the oversized blanket Callum’s housekeeper had brought her. Her leg throbbed with a dull, manageable ache, but her mind was spinning at a dangerous speed.
“The Moretti family,” Sadie said, breaking the silence. “The rival syndicate from the South Side?”
Callum walked back toward the sofa, holding a warm cup of herbal tea. He set it on the low glass table in front of her.
“Drink that,” he commanded softly.
Sadie picked up the porcelain cup, letting the steam warm her face. “Why would the Moretti family attack an art appraiser, Callum? I don't work for them. I work for museum trustees.”
“You work for me,” Callum corrected, sitting on the edge of the heavy mahogany desk opposite her. “And everyone in the Midwest knows that if you want to touch my empire, you don't hit my armored trucks. You hit my pipeline.”
He gestured toward the portfolio resting on the table.
“The Caravaggio sketch isn't just a painting, Sadie,” Callum explained, his tone measured and instructive. “It belonged to the estate of Donato Moretti before he died last spring. His sons have been looking for it for six months. They believe the painting contains the routing codes for their father's offshore accounts, hidden inside the lining of the canvas.”
Sadie dropped her cup slightly, tea spilling onto the saucer. “What?”
“Donato was paranoid,” Callum continued dryly. “He didn't trust digital banks. He had an art restorer weave micro-inscriptions into the gesso behind the paint layer. When I bought the piece at a private liquidation sale last week, I thought I was buying rare Renaissance art. It turns out I bought the key to forty million dollars of Moretti money.”
Sadie stared at the leather folder in horror. “And you had me carry it across the city on the Red Line?!”
“I didn't know about the inscription until two hours ago,” Callum said, his voice dropping an octave, filled with real, sharp regret. “If I had known, I would have sent an armored escort to your apartment.”
Sadie leaned back against the cushions, rubbing her tired eyes. “The man on the stairs... he tried to take the folder. I fought him off because I thought it was just my laptop and my museum notes.”
“You fought off a Moretti enforcer with a leather bag?” Callum asked, a faint, genuine glimmer of respect touching his dark eyes.
“I hit him in the throat with my metal umbrella,” Sadie admitted, her cheek twitching with a tiny, reluctant smile.
For the first time all evening, the dark tension in Callum’s face broke. He let out a quiet, rumbling laugh that sounded like heavy stones rolling together.
“A metal umbrella,” Callum repeated softly, shaking his head. “You are out of your mind, Sadie Miller.”
“I’m efficient,” she corrected, her gray eyes meeting his. “And I don't like people touching my work.”
May you like
Callum stood up, walking around the desk until he was standing directly over her. He reached out, his long fingers gently touching the side of her chin, raising her face to look up at him.
“You’re staying here tonight,” Callum declared. “The streets aren't safe for you anymore. Until I hunt down the man with the red spider tattoo, you don't leave my sight.”
