Chapter 8 - The Bullet Reed Refused to Answer
Aldo Ferris made his final move on a rainy April night.
Callaway’s was closed for a private maintenance inspection.
Only six employees remained.
Reed.
Tommy.
Me.
Two kitchen supervisors.
A building engineer.
Ava was upstairs with a certified sitter because my evening class had been canceled and I had stopped by to review catering schedules.
At 9:13, the front window shattered.
Everybody froze.
Then a second impact hit the brass doorframe.
Gunfire.
Tommy pushed me behind the service wall.
Reed moved toward the stairs.
“Ava.”
The sitter was already bringing her down through the protected kitchen corridor.
Good procedures.
Good people.
Not chaos.
Another shot hit glass.
Reed pulled me behind a concrete column.
Then he jerked.
His face changed.
“Reed?”
Blood spread beneath his shirt near the shoulder.
My entire body went cold.
“Reed!”
“I’m fine.”
“You're bleeding.”
“Excellent observation.”
Even then.
Tommy called police.
Not retaliation.
Police.
The building engineer locked interior fire doors.
Staff moved into the reinforced wine-storage corridor.
No one fired back.
Not because Callaway’s security lacked weapons.
Because Reed had changed policy months earlier.
Defensive response only until law enforcement arrived.
Another shot.
Then sirens.
Fast.
The shooter fled.
Police stopped the vehicle six blocks away.
Two men connected to Ferris.
One later admitted the attack was intended to frighten Reed before his testimony, not kill anyone.
Fear again.
The weapon powerful people always believed they controlled.
An ambulance took Reed to the hospital.
The bullet had passed through soft tissue near his shoulder without hitting major structures.
Painful.
Not fatal.
I sat beside his bed while he pretended the hospital gown was the real injury.
“You look ridiculous.”
“I was shot.”
“And yet the gown remains your main complaint.”
“It has no tailoring.”
I laughed.
Then started crying.
His expression softened.
“Nora.”
“You could have died.”
“But I didn't.”
“You can't keep saying that.”
“I wasn't planning to make a habit.”
I stared at him.
“You didn't shoot back.”
“No.”
“You could have.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you?”
He looked at me.
“You asked whether I would teach myself that fear isn't respect.”
My throat tightened.
“I remembered.”
I took his hand.
“That may be the most romantic terrible thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I was hoping for flowers.”
“Try harder.”
Ferris was charged with additional conspiracy and witness-intimidation offenses.
The shooting destroyed whatever bargaining position he had left.
His remaining associates began cooperating.
Caleb did too.
Cowards often become informative when facing long sentences.
Caleb admitted he had used me as camouflage.
Admitted hiding records inside baby items.
Admitted returning to Chicago for the evidence.
Admitted using the custody petition to pressure me.
And admitted he had never intended to parent Ava.
That confession was devastating.
And freeing.
Several months later, the criminal cases concluded.
Ferris received a lengthy sentence.
Caleb accepted a federal plea involving financial crimes, obstruction, stalking-related conduct, and conspiracy.
Elena received a shorter sentence due to cooperation but lost any claim that she merely misunderstood what was happening.
Reed completed his own sentencing hearing.
Probation.
Financial monitoring.
Forfeitures.
No criminal association.
Strict business compliance.
He walked out legally constrained and emotionally lighter.
I met him on the courthouse steps.
“No black SUVs?”
“Sold several.”
“Tragic.”
“I kept one.”
“Of course.”
He smiled.
Then looked nervous.
Reed Callaway.
Nervous.
I enjoyed that.
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“What about it?”
“Tonight.”
“That sounds like dinner.”
“As an actual date.”
I smiled.
“You were shot three months ago.”
“I recovered.”
“You were under federal investigation.”
“Resolved.”
“You were my boss.”
“Your employment structure is now under an independent operating company.”
“You really planned this.”
“I had lawyers.”
“Nothing sexier.”
He sighed.
“Is that yes?”
“Yes.”
Our first date happened in a small Italian restaurant Reed did not own.
He complained about the pasta.
I kicked him beneath the table.
He laughed.
We talked about everything except crime.
His mother.
My childhood.
Ava’s first tooth.
My plan to finish an associate degree in hospitality management.
Reed’s idea for expanding childcare benefits across his businesses.
At dessert, he asked:
“What do you want in five years?”
The question frightened me more than gunshots.
For years, I had planned in six-day increments.
Rent.
Formula.
Shift schedules.
“What do normal people say?”
“House. Career. Travel.”
I thought.
“I want a refrigerator I don't worry about opening.”
He became very still.
“I want Ava to never know what $11.70 means.”
His eyes softened.
“I want work I’m good at.”
“Yes.”
“And…”
I stopped.
“And?”
“I want someone who doesn’t disappear when things become inconvenient.”
Reed reached across the table.
He did not touch my hand until I turned it palm-up.
Then he held it.
“I can work with that.”
No giant promise.
No forever guaranteed.
Just willingness.
I smiled.
“So what do you want?”
He looked surprised.
“Nobody asks me.”
“I just did.”
He thought.
Then:
“I want a home that feels more important than my office.”
My eyes burned.
“That's annoyingly good.”
“I practiced.”
“Clearly.”
He smiled.
Months later, Caleb’s parental rights were terminated after extensive hearings and his voluntary surrender under legal agreement.
I did not celebrate outside the courtroom.
I went home.
Picked Ava up.
Held her.
Then cried in my kitchen.
Not because she had lost a father.
Because she had finally stopped being somebody’s leverage.
Reed came over that evening.
He brought groceries.
Not diamonds.
Not money.
Milk.
Bread.
Formula we no longer needed because Ava was transitioning away from it.
I held up the can.
“She doesn't use this anymore.”
He stared.
“I panicked.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
Ava toddled toward him unsteadily.
One step.
Two.
Then she fell against his leg.
Reed crouched.
“Hey.”
She touched his face.
Then said:
“Ree.”
He froze.
I stared.
“Did she—”
“Yes.”
He looked absurdly emotional.
“Ree.”
Ava slapped both hands against his cheeks.
“Ree!”
I laughed.
Reed cried.
Barely.
He denied it later.
May you like
I had witnesses.
And for the first time, the man everyone feared in Chicago was defeated completely by a one-year-old saying half his name.
