Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SLADE
FOUR YEARS LATER
Three hesitant knocks disturb the silence in my office. I pause the email I’m typing and lean back against the polished leather chair. Smoothing my palms over the armrests, worn from my repeated periodic gestures, I stare at the door until it pops open.
Elliot’s head pokes in, his black curly hair falling over the front of his forehead. “Excuse me, Congressman. Do you have those policy briefings I dropped off earlier signed?”
I tilt my head toward the corner of the oak desk where the papers are stacked.
He snaps his fingers before pointing there and scurrying into my office to grab them. With a brief pause, he stalls his retreat. “Can I get you any dinner, Mr. DuPont?”
Ah, Elliot. Doing his best to take care of me.
He was the only hire I had any say in when I was reelected two years ago. Henry DuPont took the reins of constructing my team, but my personal assistant was mine. Or perhaps that’s an illusion too.
He’s short and scrawny—in a twelve-year-old-like way. His thin frame appears out of place in the suit-drenched world of politics, but what he lacks in presence, he makes up for in competence.
I study him, his bushy eyebrows still raised in question. His suit is too big at the shoulders and hangs in a boxy rectangle as he slumps over, turned away from the massive statement desk. He isn’t intimidating and not the type to command attention, but he’s invaluable.
Sliding back the cuff of my suit, the fading light catches the polished white gold of my Rolex as I check the time—7:30 p.m.—the faint reflection of my thick glasses distorting the curved sapphire crystal. I should go anyway. I’m expected at a certain time on Fridays.
The second hand creeps forward, steady and unbothered by my pulse ticking up, or my breath coming in a little too shallow.
“Mr. DuPont?”
I jolt, shoulders tensing, then shake my head.
“Well, all right. Have a good night, Congressman.”
He hunches over the signed briefings, then hurries out of the office, gently closing the solid wood door behind him.
I stand, tucking my hands into my pockets, and glance around. The mahogany-paneled walls don’t feel much different from the metal bars of a prison.
It was my grandfather’s, all the years he was in office, and there’s a sense of old-money prestige here, high above the Chicago skyline. Worn-in leather, heirloom furniture, monogrammed tumblers, rare oil paintings … It all contributes to the giant punch line: This was handed to you.
Glass wraps the corner of the suite, the sweeping view of other towers and steel buildings jutting upward. Lake Michigan glimmers in the distance under the darkening sky, and a mass of clouds thickens.
I lean my shoulder against the cool window, tracking the city’s movement beneath me.
Chicago’s pulse is constant—gritty, restless, and unrelenting.
Rough around the edges with an underbelly the world isn’t ready to know.
Power isn’t earned or elected. It’s clawed for and held onto by powerful names willing to sacrifice and bleed for it.
Chicago is alive, and from up here, I watch its heartbeat.
Trudging back to my desk, I close my laptop and tuck it away before shifting to the steel bar nestled between the wall of built-in shelves around it. I reach for a crystal decanter of scotch and swirl the amber liquid, inhaling the smoky, oak-aged warmth.
After pouring a healthy tumbler, I sip my drink while letting my fingers skim over the stiff leather-bound books on the shelves.
A cigar box sits on a middle shelf with DuPont embellished on the front, and I slide it toward me with my free hand.
The wood is smooth and cool, polished to an almost glass-like texture.
The hinges click as I lift the lid, the scent hitting me.
Rich and earthy, the smell of aged tobacco, cedar, and something bitter wafts out.
It takes me back.
I was sixteen when my grandfather let me have one.
He pulled it from this same box, and I remember I was impressed at the practiced efficiency with which he clipped the end with a gold cutter.
The thick smoke curled in the air between us as we sat on the balcony of his penthouse, the city lights flickering on the horizon.
He took a long draw, exhaled slowly, then turned to me with that cold glint in his eye.
The one that always made me feel like I was being tested, or worse, groomed.
“Power and wealth,” he said, voice low, “aren’t earned, boy. You take it—and once you’ve got it, hold on. Doesn’t matter who is in the way. Doesn’t matter who bleeds. Just don’t let it be you.”
I didn’t say anything then. I didn’t have to. The smoke mixed with his words said enough.
Why he felt the need to impart this so-called wisdom was lost on me at that young age, but I finally learned.
Finally grasped why he felt the need to mold me into his image to create a dupe.
I picked up on it throughout the years as he raised me.
My mother was a disappointment to him, pursuing art and love over political power and motherhood.
Now, as I run my thumb along the edge of the box, breathing in the same scent to the tune of the same lesson, I wonder … What does he think of me now?
A photo of me with my grandfather and the President of the United States sits on the same shelf, among others with him and our team. Campaign photos, election parties, and roundtable discussions—they all feel like the superficial top layer of who I am. But underneath …
I snort, slam the box shut, and down the rest of my liquor in a single swig.
Grabbing my suit jacket from the coatrack by the door, I slide it on, pulling the sleeves down and fixing the gold-initialed EV cufflinks.
I stare into the mirror, adjusting the rumpled collar of my shirt.
The reflection that meets me is measured, the kind that’s learned in this game we play.
I push up the frames on my nose, trying to hide the piercing blue eyes.
It’s like he’s watching me, and I plow a hand through my hair.
It’s thick and messy from the day, but long enough to sweep back into a subtle tousled wave.
Luckily, I inherited my mother’s honey blonde instead of the brown my father sports.
I set my jaw, pat the black tie, and steel my expression, preparing for the night to come. The tension, the weight of it all—I’ve gotten used to it. It’s who I am. A damn DuPont.
The limo glides through the city, the steel buildings and streetlights unfolding beyond the tinted glass I’m leaning against. The energy of the city, especially on a Friday, is restless.
Horns blare, people rush, and glass towers scrape the sky with lights that flicker like dew on an intricate spiderweb.
I snort.
That’s exactly the perfect way to describe the city’s inner workings—a spiderweb spun in steel and smoke. Invisible to the naive eye, but if you know where to look, you can see who’s pulling the strands and who’s about to get caught. And no one’s untouched by it.
Inside the insulated limo, the city goes silent, shut out by thick glass. The divider glass is up, sealing off my driver, Paul. Not that we chat anyway.
The faint scent of my cologne and potent conditioned leather wrap around me as I fist the full glass in my hand. Low ambient lighting from the hidden strips along the floor cast a shadow of my liquor tumbler. I stare down at it, unable to finish.
Soon, congested roads thin into a narrow, forgotten alley off East 8th, and Paul slows to a stop, getting out and quickly securing the area before opening my door. He doesn’t speak. He knows better.
I step out into the shadows of the hovering buildings.
The cool summer air carries the earthy smell of rain on concrete and the distant smoke from restaurants.
Tugging on the lapel of my suit, I glance up at the hidden camera mounted high on the rusted fire escape, its lens glinting behind a cracked security light.
There are multiple cameras in the alley, but this one, from its vantage point, watches the alley’s entrance and private garage.
It captures every face, running it through facial recognition.
If you aren’t in the database, you won’t make it to the door.
Security will escort you to the street and make sure you remember the route.
The men behind the blinking red light see everything. Even in the dark.
I pause a second longer before glancing back at Paul and giving him a nod. He returns the gesture and closes the door, while I opt for the alleyway entrance this time.
I’ve traveled to a few other locations over the past four years: Miami, Los Angeles, Boston.
Most of their entrances are disgusting, pathetic excuses for society standards, if you ask me.
Covered in trash and graffiti. But not ours.
Ours is pristine. The concrete is smooth and uncracked.
The bricks that line both sides of the alley are bright, and the mortar edges are sharp and clean.
The alley slopes to a dead end with an unmarked iron door.
There’s no sign, no handle—only a small brass plate with the letters EV etched in crimson.
I reach inside the pocket of my suit, fingers brushing the velvet black business card that was my invitation years ago.
More like my summons to rotted corruption, yet now it’s my key.
To the right, there’s a narrow slot beside the door, and I slide the card into it. With a soft click, the lock disengages, and when the door swings open, I step inside. The rush of wind whistling through the alleyway vanishes and is replaced by silence.