The Beggar’s Throne

Chapter Two

Jake gripped the black card tightly. His name was printed in shiny gold letters, catching the light from the bar’s flickering neon sign. Everything around him faded away, all he could focus on was the woman next to him.

He stared at Lady Vivian, her words replayed in his head, three trillion dollars, the Syndicate, your father.

Jake’s heart pounded. He couldn’t stop thinking about Ellie’s hospital bill—$50,000 for the kidney transplant that could save her life. The Carters had kicked him out and Amanda had sent divorce papers, but this card... this felt like a chance. Maybe his only one.

“Who the hell are you?” Jake said, voice low, rough from the beer. “And why now? I’ve been nobody my whole life.”

Vivian gave a small, unreadable smile. “I was your father’s right hand, Jake. Michael Sullivan built the Kane Syndicate—ports, clubs, deals this city pretends don’t exist. When he was killed, I swore I’d find you.”

She leaned in slightly. “We’ve been watching you. Foster homes, delivery routes… tapping QuickSlice’s GPS wasn’t hard.” She tapped the card. “That’s your key—to Kane Tower, offshore accounts, and enough power to make Chicago kneel.

So… you in?”

Jake’s jaw clenched. Ellie’s text—You okay?—flashed in his mind, along with the image of her pale face in the ICU at Mercy Hospital. It stabbed at him. He’d begged the Carters for help at Diane’s party, and they’d laughed him off—pizza boy.

“Test it,” Vivian said, standing. “Mercy Hospital’s open. Pay Ellie’s bill. Then meet me at Kane Tower, 233 South Wacker. Midnight.” She slid a key fob across the bar, marked with a stylized K. “Your father’s penthouse. Don’t be late.”

The bar sounds slowly returned, drunkards laughing, someone shouting, and a Bruce Springsteen song playing from the jukebox. He turned the card over, it was heavy, real. Three trillion dollars? It sounded like a scam, but Ellie didn’t have time for doubts. He downed his beer, slapped a crumpled five on the bar, and headed for his Honda.

He drove to Mercy Hospital on the south side, the potholes on 63rd Street shaking his old car, the city’s glowing skyline reminded him of everything he didn’t have. 

He parked under a flickering streetlight, and walked hastily towards the emergency room. He walked up to the front desk, a woman with tired eyes looked at him over her glasses. Her badge read Marla.

“Ellie Sullivan,” Jake said, heart pounding. “Kidney transplant. What’s the total?”

Marla tapped her keyboard, her screen displaying. “Fifty grand. Due tomorrow if you want to schedule. You got insurance?”

Jake slid the black card across the counter, not even sure it would work. “Try this. Full amount.”

She raised an eyebrow but swiped it. The machine beeped—a green light blinked.

“Approved,” she said slowly, eyes wide. “Paid in full. Fifty thousand. Who are you?”

Jake exhaled, the burden on his chest lifted. “Just her brother.” Ellie was safe, for now. “He slipped the card into his pocket, the fob’s engraved K pressed into his palm, like a promise. Vivian hadn’t lied. This was real.

He stepped on the Honda pedal and drove into downtown Chicago.

Kane Tower was at 233 South Wacker. Most of the top floors were dark, except for one penthouse with lights on. Jake parked and used the key fob to get into a private elevator. The elevator quickly rose 80 floors and opened into a modern, elegant suite with black marble floors and huge windows showing the city lights below. Vivian was there, standing by a glass desk, holding a tablet that displayed maps and plans of the city’s ports.

“Welcome home,” she said, gesturing towards a leather couch. Why don’t you have a seat? Your father owned this tower, half the city’s ports, and deals that keep Chicago running. The Kane Syndicate isn’t just money, it’s power. You’re Michael Sullivan’s son, the rightful heir.”

Jake eased onto the couch, his head spinning. “You said someone killed him. Who?”

“Darius Holt,” Vivian said, her voice turning cold. “He’s a traitor to the Syndicate. Runs a rival crew now, and he wants what’s yours. He’s got eyes everywhere—cops, aldermen, even the Carters’ friend, Ethan Brooks.” She slid the tablet toward him, showing a grainy photo of a scarred man in a suit, that was Holt. “You’re a target now, Jake. But you’ve got the card, the tower, and me. Use them.”

Ethan Brooks, the real estate sleaze Amanda’s parents wanted her to marry. The Carters’ smug faces at the gala, Diane’s sneer, Greg’s pizza boy jab, Amanda’s cold betrayal, were fresh in his mind. He wanted to storm their Gold Coast mansion, rub this card in their faces, but Vivian’s warning stopped him. Holt was out there, and Jake wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“Keep it low-key,” Vivian said, reading his silence. “The Carters don’t know who you are now. Neither does Amanda. Use that. Hit them when they least expect it.”

Jake nodded, gripping the fob. “What’s first?”

“Learn the game,” Vivian said. “Tomorrow, you meet the Syndicate’s inner circle. Some are loyal to your father; others smell blood. Stay sharp, your memory’s always been photographic, hasn’t it? Use it.”

Jake frowned. How’d she know that? He’d always remembered every street, every order, every insult. “Yeah,” he said. “Always have.”

“It’s why Michael trusted you’d take over,” Vivian said. “He saw it in you as a kid.”

His phone buzzed, seizing the moment. A text from Amanda: Sign the papers, Jake. 

You’re nothing but a liar. Ethan’s worth ten of you. The line cut.