Chapter 2 - The Currency of Blood
The silence inside the conservatory stretched until the freezing rain against the glass sounded like gravel hitting a coffin.
Hannah looked at the black-and-white photograph resting on the table. She didn't deny it. She didn't offer a clever excuse or drop to her knees to beg for mercy. She simply reached out, took the paper cup from Eleanor’s hand, checked the remaining fluid level, and set it back down.
“Your mother’s dosage needs to be adjusted in four weeks,” Hannah said, her tone utterly indifferent to the exposure of her identity. “The digitalis toxicity in her lower extremities is reduced, but if you continue letting her drink the Cabernet Vanessa brings her, she will suffer a fatal stroke before spring.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. He reached out, his thick fingers grabbing her upper arm—not with violence, but with a firm, immovable grip that forced her to face him directly.
“I didn't ask for a medical consultation,” Dominic growled. “I asked why you are here.”
“I am here because the pay is twenty-two dollars an hour, cash,” Hannah replied, her eyes meeting his without a trace of tremor. “And because people who look at maid uniforms rarely look at faces.”
“You think I brought you into this house by accident?” Dominic sneered softly.
Hannah’s dark eyes narrowed slightly—the first real break in her armor. “What?”
Dominic released her arm, stepping back toward the glass wall, looking out at the black void of the lake.
“Four months ago, my mother collapsed in her private quarters,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, somber pitch. “The doctors at Northwestern told me her heart was failing. They gave her six months. They offered hospice care and morphine.”
He turned back to face her, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
“I don't accept six months,” Dominic said. “I sent three of my men to find the girl from Pittsburgh. It took twelve weeks and forty thousand dollars in bribes to trace the fake credentials you bought in Indiana. The agency that placed you here wasn't an agency at all. It was a front managed by Walter.”
Hannah’s breathing didn't accelerate, but her fingers twitched slightly against her skirt.
“You lured me here,” she said flatly.
“I gave you a sanctuary,” Dominic corrected her. “The Marshals aren't looking for a maid in the Moretti mansion. In exchange for your life and protection, you keep my mother alive.”
“I am not a miracle worker, Mr. Moretti,” Hannah said coldly. “Your mother has severe end-stage cardiomyopathy. I can slow the decline with proper medication management, but I cannot rewrite biology. She needs a transplant, which she cannot get because she is seventy-two years old and her name is linked to three federal RICO investigations.”
“Then you make her comfortable,” Dominic said. “And you keep your mouth shut.”
“And Vanessa?” Hannah asked, her voice carrying a sharp edge for the first time. “Does your future wife know that her husband-to-be hired a disgraced surgeon as a housekeeper, or will she continue using antique leather straps on me every time she feels insecure?”
Dominic walked back to her, stopping so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.
“Vanessa is a business transaction,” Dominic said quietly. “Her father controls the rail yards in North Chicago. Her family provides the political legitimacy the Moretti name needs to go public.”
“She’s a sadist,” Hannah stated simply.
“She’s a child who thinks power is loud,” Dominic shot back. “She won't lay a hand on you again. I made that clear to her ten minutes ago.”
“How reassuring,” Hannah said, her sarcasm dry and lethal. “Should I thank you now, or should I finish cleaning the silver?”
Before Dominic could answer, the small brass intercom on the wall beside the conservatory door buzzed three times—a sharp, erratic signal.
Dominic’s entire posture changed instantly. The relaxed stance vanished, replaced by the coiled tension of a wolf sensing a intruder. He reached under his arm, his hand disappearing into his shoulder holster, drawing a matte-black Glock 19 with a practiced, terrifying smoothness.
He pressed the intercom button. “Speak, Walter.”
Walter’s voice came through the small speaker, distorted by static and thick with panic.
“Boss... we have a problem at the south gate. It’s Julian Vance’s brother, Marcus. He brought six cars.”
Hannah froze.
The name Vance struck the room like a physical blow. The color drained from her face, her hands gripping the edge of the glass table until her knuckles turned white.
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“Marcus Vance is in Chicago?” Dominic asked, his voice deathly quiet.
“He claims one of his informants spotted Dr. Reed in the city three days ago,” Walter stammered through the speaker. “He’s demanding to search the property, Boss. He says if you’re harboring the woman who let his brother die... he’ll burn the estate to the ground.”
