9. Victoria #2
I step into the climate-controlled air. The scent of rain from outside vanishes, replaced instantly by something that makes my academic instincts flare, a distinct, earthy baseline chemical aroma mixed with the sharp, clinical tang of industrial solvents.
It is faint, drifting through the building’s sophisticated air filtration system, but to a trained chemist, it is unmistakable.
“This is the secondary staff residence,” Lorenzo says, leading me through the wide, minimalist foyer. “The administrative workers, the botanists, and the inventory specialists live here. Your quarters are on the second floor.”
The interior is entirely functional. The floors are polished hardwood; the walls are a muted, matte grey.
We pass an open dining hall where a dozen people in matching grey shirts sit at long tables, speaking in hushed tones.
They don’t look like street soldiers. They look like technical professionals, their faces tired but intensely focused.
When Lorenzo enters, the low chatter stops completely. No one looks him in the eye.
He leads me up a flight of stairs to a heavy oak door marked 207 and pushes it open.
The room is moderate but comfortable. A twin bed, a desk, a single window looking out toward the secured rows of glass structures inside the compound, and a small, attached bathroom. On the desk sits a stack of neatly folded clothing, three grey cotton shirts and two pairs of dark trousers.
“Your uniform,” Lorenzo says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “Shift starts at seven tomorrow morning. You will report to Processing House B to be put through.”
I turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest, letting my knowledge anchor me. “Processing what, exactly? If I am going to be working here on your property, I have a right to know what I am handling.”
“You handle inventory logs,” he replies coldly. “Data entry. You track weights, batch numbers, and distribution destinations. The nature of the product is not your concern. You look at the screen, you input the figures, you verify the seals. You will work whatever is required of you.”
“And if I refuse?”
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. The space instantly feels smaller, the air pressure changing between us. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the absolute authority behind it is undeniable.
“We discussed options this morning, Victoria. You don’t have a third choice.
You are a guest by circumstance, but you remain alive by my tolerance.
Every person on this property earns their keep.
If you choose to sit in this room and rot, your protection cost goes unpaid. And my ledger must always balance.”
“You talk about me like I’m a piece of cargo,” I say, my voice trembling with an anger I can’t entirely suppress. “I have a family name. I have a history.”
“Your family name is currently being liquidated by the Volkov Bratva, and your history is written on documents that would get you executed by any family in this city,” He says, his expression completely blank.
“In this room, you have no history and be grateful I haven’t followed suit.
You are an employee of Nero Logistics. Remember that when you sit at the terminal tomorrow. ”
I look out the window at the white-glass houses, then back to him. The memories of my father’s maps flash behind my eyes again. The puzzle pieces are floating in my mind, and they are beginning to arrange themselves like molecules seeking stability. I just don’t have the full formula yet.
“My father always said I stay away from a tyrant,” I whisper. “He meant especially a Mafia that can’t sleep unless he controls every heartbeat in Chicago.”
A very faint, dark smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Honey, your father was a formidable man. He achieved more than most ever will. But he made the mistake of letting his debts outlive his utility. Don’t take advice from dead men.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, grey plastic card. He sets it on the desk next to the folded clothes.
“Your security badge,” he says. “It opens your room, the dining hall, and Processing House B. If you are found near the perimeter fencing, the main gates, or the private residential wings of the main house, the guards are authorised to use force. They won’t ask for your identification before they pull the trigger. ”
“I understand,” I say, my throat dry.
“I keep my words,” Lorenzo adds, his hand resting on the brass doorknob. “At the end of each month, your salary will be calculated. The cost of your room, your board, and your medical care will be deducted. The remainder is yours to keep in a secure trust.
“And when will I be free?”
“It’s not yours to decide.” He opens the door, the hallway light spilling across the threshold. “Get some rest, Victoria. The morning comes early on this estate.”
The door closes, and the lock clicks into place from the outside.
I stand in the centre of the small room, the silence pressing against my ears. I look down at the grey clothes on the desk, then at the plastic security badge.
I am a prisoner, but I am an employed one.
I walk to the window, watching the distant headlights of an internal patrol vehicle sweep across the gravel paths between the white-glass houses. Francesco is out there, hunting for a signature he needs to survive. Lorenzo is in here, tracking every move I make to protect his ledger.
They both think I am a simple variable they can easily isolate and control.
I sit down on the edge of the mattress, my fingers smoothing over the rough cotton of the uniform shirt.
My mind is entirely clear now. The academic contracts, the quiet lecture halls, the peaceful life I tried to build—it’s gone.
But my memory is back. And as I stare out at the massive operations running beneath the dark Chicago sky, I realise that Lorenzo Marcone has made a critical miscalculation.
He thinks he bought an assistant to log his shipments.
He doesn’t realise he just brought a master of synthesis into his laboratory.
If I am going to survive this estate, I have to learn how to play by their rules until I find a way to rewrite the board.