Chapter 4 - The Night the Glass Shattered
The nightmare found us on a Tuesday night.
It was raining again, a thick, freezing Chicago rain that turned the streets into slick, black mirrors. I was in the kitchen of my small apartment, preparing a bottle of Oliver's medication while he slept in the next room. The hum of his nebulizer was a comforting, familiar rhythm, a reminder of the safety my work with Sebastian had bought us.
Then, the power went out.
The kitchen was instantly plunged into pitch blackness. The hum of the nebulizer stopped.
"Oliver?" I called out, my heart instantly leaping into my throat.
A sudden, violent crash echoed from the front living room. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass filled the apartment. Before I could move, a heavy, gloved hand clamped over my mouth from behind, a thick arm wrapping around my waist and lifting me off my feet.
"Keep quiet if you want the kid to keep breathing," a rough, unfamiliar voice hissed in my ear.
I thrashed against him, my elbows digging into his ribs, but he was too strong. He dragged me into the living room, where the faint light from the streetlamp outside illuminated three men in tactical gear, their faces hidden behind black balaclavas. One of them was holding Oliver.
My eight-year-old son was struggling, his small face pale with terror, his chest heaving as he fought for air without his machine.
"Mom!" he choked out, his voice a tiny, desperate squeak.
"Let him go!" I screamed through the man's fingers, my teeth sinking into his gloved palm. He grunted in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to shout. "He can't breathe! He needs his medication!"
"He’ll get his medicine when your boss does what we want," the leader of the group said. He stepped forward, his eyes glinting through the eyeholes of his mask. "You’re coming with us, Clare. Sebastian Lombardi has a lot of questions to answer, and we think you’re the only one who can make him speak."
They threw a black bag over my head.
The next hour was a blur of motion, terror, and the suffocating smell of damp canvas. I was tossed into the back of a van, my hands bound tightly behind my back with zip-ties. Oliver was beside me; I could hear his shallow, rapid wheezing, a sound that tore at my soul more than any physical blow could have. I pressed my body against his, trying to offer him whatever comfort and warmth I could in the dark, freezing space.
"Hold on, sweetie," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Just hold on. Mommy’s here."
When the van finally stopped, we were dragged out into the cold air. The smell of wet concrete, rust, and river water was thick—we were near the shipping yards. The bag was ripped from my head, and I found myself in a massive, abandoned warehouse, illuminated by a single, harsh halogen work light suspended from the rafters.
Standing in the shadows just outside the ring of light was Mateo Lombardi.
He was holding a silver pistol, his face twisted into a smug, triumphant smile.
"Well, well," Mateo said, stepping into the light. "The miracle worker. I have to admit, Clare, I didn't believe it at first. But I had my men follow your little town car. I saw the medical supplies you were ordering. I saw the recovery reports in Sebastian’s study. My brother is actually healing, isn't he? He’s going to walk again."
"He’s your brother, Mateo," I gasped, holding Oliver close to my chest as he shivered against me. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because a walking Sebastian is a dead end for me," Mateo spat. "As long as he was in that chair, the board of directors, the street crews, everyone looked at him as a temporary king. They were just waiting for him to die so I could take over. But if he stands up? If he proves he’s invincible? I’ll be his shadow forever."
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He stepped closer, pointing the barrel of his gun directly at Oliver’s forehead.
"So here’s what’s going to happen, Clare. You’re going to call Sebastian. You’re going to tell him that you’ve been taken, and that if he wants to see you and your pathetic little boy alive again, he has to sign over the shipping proxies to me. By sunrise. Or I’ll see how well your gifted hands can put your son back together."
