Chapter 3 - Shadows on Euclid Avenue
The cold hit them the moment they stepped out of the brass revolving doors.
The wind off Lake Erie had turned savage, whipping rain sideways down Euclid Avenue and tearing the remaining yellow leaves from the sidewalk maples. Streetlights cast long, shivering orange reflections across the wet asphalt.
Claire instinctively stepped in front of Rosie, shielding the little girl with her body. She pulled her camel coat tight around herself, shivering as the damp chill penetrated the wool.
“Dominic, really, this is unnecessary,” Claire tried to say over the howling wind. “The rapid transit station is right around the corner. I do this every day.”
Dominic didn't answer. He had positioned himself slightly ahead of her, his tall, broad frame acting as an impenetrable windbreak. His dark eyes scanned the street with calculating precision.
The black Impala was still there, sitting low on its shocks across the street, engine humming, exhaust plume billowing into the night. As Dominic stepped onto the sidewalk, the car’s headlights flicked from high to low—a signal.
Beside them, the door of a sleek, blacked-out Cadillac Escalade parked at the curb opened silently. Raymond Cole stepped out into the rain, wearing a tailored black overcoat, his right hand resting casually inside his lapel.
“Boss,” Raymond said, his voice flat, completely devoid of the humor he had displayed earlier. “Car’s warm.”
Claire stopped dead on the concrete. She looked from Raymond’s imposing, grim figure to the massive, armored-glass SUV, and then back to Dominic.
“Who is that?” Claire whispered, her maternal instincts flaring into high gear. Her grip on Rosie tightened. “Dominic, what is going on?”
Before Dominic could formulate a sanitized excuse, the black Impala across the street accelerated violently, tires screeching against wet pavement. It executed a reckless U-turn across the double yellow lines, splashing a sheet of muddy water against the curb as it screeched to a halt twenty yards behind them.
The driver’s side door flew open.
A man stepped out into the freezing downpour. He was thin, gaunt, dressed in a stained leather jacket, his hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. His face was drawn tight with frantic desperation.
Claire took one look at him, and all the color evacuated her face.
“Marcus?” she gasped, her voice choking on pure disbelief and dread.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed to lethal slits. He stepped laterally, putting his entire six-foot-two frame between Claire, Rosie, and the newcomer.
“Claire!” the man shouted, his voice hoarse, cracking against the wind. He stumbled forward a step, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “Claire, don’t play dumb! I know she’s with you!”
Rosie whimpered, burying her face into Claire’s hip. “Auntie Claire, it’s Uncle Marcus. He smells bad.”
“Get in the car, Claire,” Dominic commanded. His tone was icy, flat, completely drained of the gentle warmth he had shown over dinner.
“Marcus, what are you doing here?” Claire cried out, terrified, trying to usher Rosie toward the open door of Dominic’s Escalade. “Lily isn't here! She left three weeks ago! Leave us alone!”
“She stole from me!” Marcus roared, taking three aggressive steps forward onto the sidewalk. He looked unhinged, his eyes wild, pupils dilated despite the gloom. “She took thirty grand from my safe, Claire! You think you can just play mommy with her kid and pretend nothing happened? Where is she? Give me my money!”
Marcus lunged forward, reaching toward Claire’s arm.
He never made it within five feet.
Raymond moved like a striking viper, closing the distance and catching Marcus by the collar of his leather jacket with one hand, violently slamming the man backward against the brick facade of a darkened shoe store. The impact cracked against the brick with sickening force.
Marcus gasped, air exploding from his lungs as Raymond pressed the heel of his forearm against Marcus’s throat, pinning him effortlessly. Raymond’s other hand drew a suppressed Glock 19 from beneath his coat, pressing the cold steel muzzle firmly under Marcus’s chin.
“Speak above a whisper again,” Raymond said pleasantly, “and I will paint this brick with whatever passes for your brain.”
Claire gasped in horror, clapping her hands over Rosie’s ears. “Oh, God! Oh, God, stop! Please don’t hurt him!”
Dominic didn't look at Marcus. He looked down at Claire. His face was carved from granite, devoid of emotion, the terrifying mask of a man who ruled by terror and absolute control.
“Claire,” Dominic said calmly. “Get into the SUV. Now.”
Claire trembled from head to toe, looking at the gun, looking at the blood trickling from Marcus’s split lip, and then looking at Dominic. She saw the truth now. The deference of the restaurant staff. The two-thousand-dollar suit. The armed men lurking in the shadows. Dominic Vale wasn't an executive who moved freight. He was a monster who owned the city.
Yet, as Rosie let out a terrified sob against her thigh, Claire looked into Dominic’s eyes.
There was no cruelty directed at her. Only an absolute, terrifying wall of protection.
Swallowing her terror, Claire hoisted Rosie into her arms, stepped past Raymond, and climbed into the plush leather interior of the armored Escalade. Dominic shut the heavy door behind her with a solid, vault-like thud.
Outside in the rain, the silence returned, broken only by the hum of the idling engine.
Dominic turned and walked slowly toward Marcus. His polished dress shoes clicked against the wet pavement with deliberate, rhythmic menace.
Marcus was trembling violently now, the drug-induced rage draining out of him, replaced by the suffocating realization of who was standing before him. In the dim streetlight, Marcus finally recognized the face, the scar, the cold aura of the Cleveland syndicate’s undisputed sovereign.
“V-Vale…” Marcus choked out, his voice a pathetic squeak against Raymond’s crushing forearm. “I—I didn’t know she was with you. Jesus Christ, Dominic, I swear to God, I didn’t know!”
Dominic stopped six inches from Marcus. The rain soaked through Dominic’s white shirt, plastering the linen to his broad chest, but he didn't seem to notice the freezing cold.
“You followed a woman and a child,” Dominic whispered. His voice was barely louder than the wind, but it carried the weight of an execution order. “You screamed at them in the street. You frightened them.”
“Her sister stole my money!” Marcus whimpered, tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks. “Lily took off with the Moretti crew’s cut! They’re gonna kill me, Mr. Vale! I just need my money!”
At the mention of the Moretti family, Dominic’s eyes flared with a lethal, calculating spark. The Morettis were a rival outfit operating out of the east side, encroaching on his port operations for six months.
“You belong to Sal Moretti?” Dominic asked softly.
“I—I run collections for his nephew,” Marcus babbled. “Please. I didn’t know Claire was yours. I swear I didn’t know!”
Dominic tilted his head. “She isn't mine. Yet.”
He reached out, his large, scarred hand wrapping around Marcus’s jaw with crushing pressure. Dominic squeezed until the bone groaned beneath his fingers. Marcus whimpered in agony.
“Listen to me very carefully, Marcus,” Dominic murmured, leaning in so close that his breath warmed the terrified man’s ear. “If you ever look in Claire Bennett’s direction again, if you walk down her street, if your shadow crosses her bakery, I will not kill you. I will dismantle you, bone by bone, and feed the pieces to the fish off the Whiskey Island pier. Do you understand me?”
“Yes! Yes, God, yes, I swear!” Marcus sobbed.
Dominic let go, wiping his wet fingers with a pristine handkerchief from his pocket. He glanced at Raymond.
“Take his keys. Slash his tires. Leave him here to walk home in the dark.”
“Understood, boss,” Raymond grunted.
Dominic turned on his heel, walked back to the Escalade, and opened the door.
Inside, the heat was blasting. The cabin smelled of expensive leather, cedar, and the sweet vanilla perfume Claire wore. Claire sat huddled in the wide captain’s chair, holding Rosie tightly in her lap. The little girl had her eyes squeezed shut, clutching her faded rabbit with white knuckles.
Dominic climbed into the seat across from them and pulled the door shut, locking out the storm.
Claire looked up at him, her brown eyes wide, luminous, and rimmed with unshed tears. She looked at his soaked shirt, at the rain dripping from his dark hair, at the terrifying calm that settled over him.
“Who are you?” Claire whispered, her voice cracking.
Dominic took a slow, steady breath. He knew the illusion was shattered. He could have lied. He could have made up a corporate security story. But looking into Claire’s honest, terrified eyes, he found himself incapable of feeding her poison.
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“My name is Dominic Vale,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze without flinching. “And nobody will ever hurt you or that little girl again as long as I have breath in my lungs.”
***
