Chapter 7
By four in the morning, the rain had turned into a torrential downpour, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite.
Dominic hadn't slept. Neither had I.
He had summoned his top four lieutenants—men who looked like they had crawled out of war zones—into the private study. Maps of the Chicago riverfront, blueprint overlays of old Falcone safe houses, and encrypted radios were scattered across the mahogany table.
Through the crack in the door, I had watched them argue.
"She’s a Trojan horse, Boss!" one of the lieutenants, a scarred man named Bruno, had shouted, slamming his fist down. "A Falcone in your private quarters? Kill her and throw her body in the alley! Let the remnants know what happens to anyone carrying that bloodline!"
Dominic hadn't shouted.
He had simply turned his head, looked at Bruno until the man stopped breathing, and said:
*“If you speak her name with disrespect again, Bruno, I’ll feed you to the stray dogs on 14th Street. She stays. Now find me their staging warehouse, or find yourself a new profession.”*
Bruno had swallowed hard, nodded, and gone back to his maps.
Now, the lieutenants were gone, dispatched into the stormy night with orders to hunt down every remaining Falcone loyalist within fifty miles.
Dominic came back into the master bedroom. He had changed into a black tactical turtleneck and dark cargo pants, his combat boots laced tight. A heavy combat knife was strapped to his right thigh.
He looked like death personified.
"Drink this," he said, handing me a mug of black coffee.
I took it with two trembling hands. "What happens now?"
"We move," Dominic said, checking the slide on his Glock before holstering it beneath his tactical vest. "The Morettis and the Falcone remnants have formed an alliance. They realized Marcus failed, and they know Daniel pulled Leo out of that meatpacking plant."
"Where are we going?"
"To the Calumet harbor," Dominic said.
My heart seized. "The Calumet harbor? But you said that was fake! You said the shipping manifests were bait!"
"They were," Dominic replied, stepping closer to the bed. "Which means that’s exactly where they’re heading right now to intercept the ghost shipment. They think they’re intercepting forty million dollars in product. They think they’re going to use that money to fund a full-scale assault on this estate tomorrow morning."
He reached out, his gloved fingers tilting my chin up so I had to look into his eyes.
"We’re going to hit them while they’re waiting for a ghost," Dominic said.
"Why are you taking me?" I whispered. "I’m injured. I’m a liability."
"Because you're the key, Emma," Dominic said, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "The commander of the Falcone remnants is a man named Vittorio Ross. He was your grandfather’s right-hand enforcer for twenty years. He’s the one who orchestrated this entire play. He won't run if he thinks you’re within his reach."
The cold realization hit me like a slap to the face.
"I'm the bait," I whispered.
Dominic’s jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck strained against his black collar.
"No," he said, his voice fierce, possessive, and terrifyingly raw. "You are the prize they think they can steal. But they will never touch you, Emma. I swear on my mother’s grave. You will sit in the back of my armored car with Daniel. You won't leave the vehicle. But Vittorio has to see your face through the window before we spring the trap."
I looked down at the coffee in my hands. The dark liquid rippled with the slight tremor in my fingers.
For eleven months, I had been an invisible ghost in this house. A maid who swept up dust, washed crystal glasses, and cowered when men with guns walked through the door.
I looked at the mirror across the room.
The woman staring back at me wasn't wearing a maid’s apron anymore. She was wearing Dominic Valenti’s cashmere robe, her eyes dark, sharp, and resolute.
The blood in my veins wasn't just the blood of a broken dancer.
It was the blood of Antonio Falcone. The man who had built this empire from nothing.
I set the mug down on the nightstand.
"Give me a gun," I said.
Dominic blinked, surprised for the second time tonight. "What?"
"I said give me a gun," I repeated, meeting his gaze without flinching. "If I’m going to sit in that car as bait, I’m not sitting there helpless. If Vittorio Ross breaks through your line, I’m not letting him take me alive to use as a puppet queen against you."
Dominic stared at me. For a long, breathless moment, the world stopped spinning.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved upward into a dark, lethal smile.
He unclipped a compact SIG Sauer P365 from his waistband holster, checked the chamber, engaged the safety, and placed the cold, heavy steel into my hands.
"Nine rounds," Dominic whispered, closing his large hand over mine on the grip. "Point and squeeze. Don't hesitate."
"I won't," I said.
He leaned down and kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was hard, possessive, and tasted of black coffee and raw violence—a brand burned into my soul before we rode into hell.
When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing with pure fire.
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"Let's go end this war," Dominic said.
***
