CHAPTER 2 — THE SONG THAT SHOULDN'T EXIST
CHAPTER 2 — THE SONG THAT SHOULDN'T EXIST
"I can explain," I said.
The words sounded ridiculous the moment they left my mouth.
How exactly did someone explain dancing barefoot in the kitchen of the most feared man in Chicago while covered head to toe in flour?
Adrian Cain didn't answer.
His dark eyes stayed on me, unreadable.
Then they shifted.
Not to the ruined floor.
Not to the broken bag of flour.
To the radio.
The old radio continued whispering the final notes of the Motown record, crackling with age.
His expression changed.
Barely.
But enough for me to notice.
"You know that song?" he asked quietly.
"I..."
I looked at the radio.
"My grandmother used to sing it."
The silence thickened.
"What was her name?"
The question came too quickly.
"Rose."
His jaw tightened.
"Rose what?"
"Rose Alvarez."
For the first time since I'd arrived at Cain House, I saw something stronger than authority cross Adrian Cain's face.
Recognition.
Impossible recognition.
"You worked for someone before this?" he asked.
"I took care of elderly people. Children. Whoever needed me."
"Your grandmother ever work for the Cain family?"
"No."
I answered honestly.
"She always told me to stay away from rich people."
A corner of his mouth almost moved.
"Smart woman."
Then his body swayed.
Just enough to reveal the dark stain spreading beneath his rolled sleeve.
Blood.
Far more blood than I'd noticed before.
"Oh my God."
I stood so quickly that flour exploded around my feet.
"You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"You are absolutely not fine."
He straightened immediately, every inch of him becoming the cold, untouchable man Chicago newspapers whispered about.
"I said I'm fine."
"And I said you're bleeding all over my clean floor."
The sentence escaped before I could stop it.
His eyebrows lifted.
"My floor?"
I blinked.
"I meant... the floor I just cleaned."
Another silence.
Then—
A tiny laugh.
Again.
Even shorter this time.
Somehow, that frightened me more than if he'd shouted.
Because men like Adrian Cain didn't laugh.
They made other people stop laughing.
"I'm getting the first-aid kit," I said.
"No."
"You need stitches."
"I said no."
"And I'm saying yes."
The words hung between us.
The temperature inside the kitchen seemed to drop ten degrees.
Every story I'd heard about Adrian Cain flashed through my head.
The man who negotiated wars between crime families.
The man prosecutors had chased for fifteen years without a conviction.
The man whose enemies disappeared so completely their names became rumors.
And I...
...had just argued with him over antiseptic.
His eyes locked onto mine.
Most people would have looked away.
I couldn't.
Not because I was brave.
Because I was terrified enough to forget how.
Finally, he sighed.
One slow breath.
"You always this stubborn?"
"My grandmother said stubborn people live longer."
"Your grandmother never met Chicago."
"Neither had she met you."
Something strange flickered across his face again.
Not anger.
Memory.
Without another word, he lowered his arm.
Blood immediately dripped onto the marble.
I crossed the kitchen before my courage disappeared.
The first-aid cabinet was exactly where the housekeeper had shown me.
When I returned, Adrian hadn't moved.
Up close, the injury looked worse.
The sleeve had practically fused to the wound.
"This is going to hurt."
"I've had worse."
"I wasn't warning you."
He frowned.
"I was warning me."
Carefully, I cut away the fabric.
The blade slipped beneath expensive black cotton.
When the sleeve fell open...
I stopped breathing.
A knife wound.
Fresh.
Deep.
Someone hadn't tried to scare Adrian Cain.
Someone had tried to kill him.
My hands trembled.
"You should be in a hospital."
"No."
"Why?"
"They ask questions."
"They're supposed to."
"So are police."
Only then did I realize something.
He hadn't come home with bodyguards.
No security team.
No doctors.
Nothing.
He had walked into the mansion alone.
Bleeding.
At midnight.
As if he trusted no one.
The realization settled heavily inside my chest.
Who could make a man like Adrian Cain afraid of his own people?
I disinfected the wound.
He didn't flinch.
Not once.
Not even when I pulled the skin together to bandage it.
"You've done this before," he observed.
"My grandfather was a mechanic."
I smiled faintly.
"He believed hospitals were for people with money."
"So he made do."
"We all did."
He watched my hands.
Steady now.
Precise.
"You don't shake anymore."
"I got used to the blood."
"No."
His voice softened unexpectedly.
"You got used to fear."
The sentence struck harder than it should have.
Because it was true.
Long before I entered Cain House, fear had already been part of my life.
Before I could answer—
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Fast.
Coming from the hallway.
Adrian's expression changed instantly.
The warmth—if it had ever existed—vanished.
He grabbed my wrist.
Hard.
"Turn off the radio."
I reached over and clicked it silent.
The footsteps stopped outside the kitchen.
A knock never came.
Instead...
The door opened.
A broad-shouldered man in an expensive gray suit stepped inside.
Silver hair.
Cold smile.
Too polished.
Too confident.
"Boss."
His eyes landed on me.
Then the flour.
Then Adrian's arm.
Something unreadable flashed across his face.
"There you are," he said smoothly.
"We've been looking everywhere."
Adrian never released my wrist.
"I wasn't aware I needed permission to walk through my own house."
The man chuckled.
"Of course not."
His gaze drifted toward the bandage.
"Kitchen accident?"
"I slipped."
For a split second—
The suited man smiled.
Not kindly.
Satisfied.
As if that answer pleased him.
Then he noticed the radio.
The old wooden radio still hummed softly with static.
His smile disappeared.
"That thing still works?"
"It seems to," I answered.
He stared at me.
"What were you listening to?"
"The station changed before I heard the title."
His eyes narrowed.
Then he looked at Adrian.
"You should throw it away."
Adrian said nothing.
The man adjusted his cufflinks.
"Breakfast meeting at eight."
"I know."
After one final glance around the room, he left.
The kitchen door clicked shut.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then Adrian walked to the radio.
He touched its scratched wooden frame with unusual care.
"My mother used to sing that song."
I looked at him.
"So did my grandmother."
His eyes slowly met mine.
"No."
His voice became almost a whisper.
"She didn't just sing it."
He turned the radio over.
On its faded underside, hidden beneath decades of dust, someone had carved two initials with a pocketknife.
R.A.
Rose Alvarez.
My grandmother.
Adrian's breathing stopped.
Impossible.
The radio had never left Cain House.
Which meant only one thing.
Years ago...
My grandmother had been here.
Long before I was born.
Long before Adrian Cain became the most feared man in Chicago.
And judging by the horror slowly appearing in his eyes...
Someone inside this mansion had spent decades making sure no one ever discovered why.
Outside the kitchen, unseen by either of us—
The silver-haired man stood in the darkness beyond the hallway corner.
Watching through the narrow opening.
Smiling.
He pulled out his phone.
One message.
She knows the song.
May you like
The reply came less than ten seconds later.
Then she dies before sunrise.
