Chapter 4: Reunion with the Mayor

I turned back and finally saw the mayor’s insignia hanging from the SUV’s mirror.

A small American flag dangled beside it, fluttering with each gust from the open window. That symbol—Chicago’s city seal—had once meant hope to me. Now, it was a warning.

I had been away for so long, so long that I’d almost convinced myself I could face it without fear.

But who wasn’t afraid at the mention of Michael Quinn?

His name was spoken in hushed tones at the corner diner, on school playgrounds, and in the police precinct. Even Mrs. Lewis, who feared no one, would shake her head at the sound of it, muttering prayers under her breath.

Whenever there was a commotion at the courthouse downtown, people didn’t even have to ask—they knew it was Mayor Quinn cleaning house again.

The local news loved to talk about him: Michael Quinn, the reformer; Michael Quinn, the hammer. But the stories you heard in back alleys were darker—the lives ruined, the families broken. His smile, when it came, was always thin and calculated.

This man held immense power and was ruthless in his methods. Yet, when it came to women, he was oddly restrained. In his prime, he had only his high school sweetheart as his wife. Even though she could not have children, he never remarried.

But one day, a lowly lounge singer became pregnant with Michael Quinn’s child. Everyone thought she schemed for money, using shameless tricks to bear his son.

The city’s rumor mill had a field day—stories about my lipstick-stained napkins, the late-night car rides, the mayor’s secret visits to the club. I became a punchline at City Hall, a cautionary tale for every girl with a dream and a smoky voice.

In the end, the mayor cared nothing for her. He let her give birth, then locked her away in a remote guesthouse, nameless and without status. Later, for reasons unknown, the singer crossed some line and was thrown out of the house in the dead of winter, nearly freezing to death.

That singer was me.

My reflection in the frosted window that night had looked like a ghost—skin stretched tight over bones, hair tangled with ice. I’d wrapped my arms around myself, repeating the words: “You can’t die here, Rachel.”

If not for John Carter, a patrolling police officer, finding me beneath the overpass, taking me in, and feeding and clothing me, I would not be alive today.

He found me clutching my belly, sobbing for the child I feared would never know warmth again. He bundled me into the back of his cruiser, his gloved hand warm and gentle. That night, he made me grilled cheese and tomato soup, and didn’t ask about my past.

For two whole years, Michael Quinn never once thought of the woman he had discarded. Now, meeting him again by chance, I was filled with dread.

I could feel the weight of unfinished business pressing on my shoulders. My hands shook as I wiped at my bloodied forehead, trying not to meet his gaze.

"Do you want me to come down and invite you myself?" Michael Quinn’s voice was gentle from within the SUV.

The words curled with threat, disguised as politeness. I knew that the gentler he sounded, the more he was suppressing his anger. Looking around, I realized there was no one who could save Ben and me. All I could do was obey.

So, pressing my lips together, I led a bewildered Ben into the SUV.

Inside, the air was thick with warmth and fragrance—suddenly it felt like spring. Michael Quinn, dressed in a heavy coat and scarf, sat beside a young boy who resembled him. Just by appearances, no one would associate the word "ruthless" with this father and son.

The seats were soft leather, the heat cranked just enough to thaw my numb hands. A faint cologne lingered, expensive and clean. The boy beside Michael Quinn—Zach—watched us with a practiced glare, his posture too stiff for his age.

Ben and I, in our plain clothes, sat anxiously across from them. My forehead was still smeared with blood. Michael Quinn looked at me as if my predicament was entirely my own fault.

I could feel his judgment, the silent accusation in every measured glance. Even here, surrounded by luxury, I felt small, out of place.