Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Gate
Dominic did not look surprised.
He slid the Glock back into his shoulder holster, adjusted his cuffs, and turned to face Hannah. Her posture had finally crumbled. The cool, detached doctor who had handled open wounds and heart failures was gone; in her place stood a terrified woman whose past had finally caught up to her.
“Julian Vance didn't die on my table,” Hannah whispered, her voice shaking for the first time. “I saved him. I kept his heart beating for eleven hours!”
“Julian died two days later from an infection caused by the filthy warehouse his own men kept him in,” Dominic said coldly. “Marcus Vance doesn't care about the medical details. He blamed you for his brother's death so he could consolidate power within his family. He’s been hunting you for six years to prove his loyalty to the old guard.”
“Dominic,” Eleanor said from her chair, her voice surprisingly firm despite her frail frame. “You cannot let Marcus Vance into this house.”
“I’m not letting him into the house,” Dominic said. He looked at Hannah. “Go to the third-floor staff quarters. Stay in the room behind the linen closet. Don't touch the lights. Don't look out the windows.”
“Dominic—” Hannah started.
“Move!” he barked, his voice booming through the conservatory.
Hannah didn't argue. She turned and ran through the heavy mahogany doors, her soft-soled shoes making no sound as she vanished down the dark service corridor.
Dominic waited until her footsteps faded completely before turning to his mother. He reached down, picked up the two white pills from the dish, and handed them to her along with the water.
“Take them,” he said gently. “Then go to your bedroom. Walter will lock the wing from the inside.”
“What are you going to do?” Eleanor asked, swallowing the tablets without hesitation.
“I’m going to remind Marcus Vance whose city this is,” Dominic said.
Ten minutes later, the grand driveway in front of the Moretti mansion was illuminated by the blinding high beams of four black SUVs parked in a jagged semi-circle across the crushed gravel.
Rain lashed against the windshields, reflecting off the barrels of automatic rifles held by eight men standing in the freezing storm.
At the center of the driveway stood Marcus Vance. He was forty years old, broad-shouldered, wearing a heavy leather coat lined with fur, his face scarred by three distinct razor slashes across his left jaw line.
Dominic walked out onto the broad stone porch alone. He wore no coat, no umbrella, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets. Behind him, standing in the shadow of the grand double doors, were six of his own men, their hands hidden inside their dark wool coats.
“Marcus,” Dominic called out, his voice easily cutting through the sound of rain and idling V8 engines. “You’re fifty miles past your territorial border. And you’re bleeding fuel on my driveway.”
Marcus took three steps forward, stopping at the base of the stone steps. “I’m not here for a turf war, Moretti. I’m here for a fugitive.”
“There are no fugitives here,” Dominic said calmly. “Only my family and my staff.”
“One of your staff is Dr. Hannah Reed,” Marcus spat, stepping closer, his boots crunching on the wet gravel. “My contacts at the West Loop agency told me a girl matching her description was dispatched here two weeks ago. Hand her over, Dominic. This isn't your fight.”
Dominic tilted his head slightly, a cold, mocking smile appearing on his lips.
“You think I let temporary staffing agencies send unvetted maids into my mother’s home?” Dominic asked, his tone dripping with quiet contempt. “If there were a fugitive in this house, Marcus, she would have been dead three minutes after crossing the gate.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “I want to see her.”
“You’re not seeing anyone,” Dominic replied softly. “You’re going to get back into your truck, drive back to Indiana, and pretend you didn't just breach the Moretti family line. Because if you take one step up these stairs, Marcus, my men will execute every person in those vehicles before your body hits the gravel.”
As if on cue, six red laser dots appeared simultaneously on Marcus’s leather coat—three on his chest, two on his throat, and one directly between his eyes from a sniper stationed on the estate roof.
Marcus froze.
The air in the driveway turned to ice. For thirty seconds, no one moved, no one breathed, the only sound being the steady click of rain against metal.
Marcus slowly raised his hands, a dark, promise of violence in his eyes.
May you like
“You’re hiding her,” Marcus whispered, his voice thick with venom. “You’re hiding the bitch who let my brother rot. I don't know why you care about her, Moretti... but this isn't over. I’ll watch this house until she steps outside.”
“Then bring a warm coat,” Dominic said flatly. “Chicago winters are long.”
