Chapter 2 - The Secret Buried Six Years Ago
Dominic did not reach for the note.
That was the first thing I noticed.
A man who was innocent would have asked to see it. He would have looked offended, confused, angry. Dominic simply stood still, his gaze fixed on the folded paper between my fingers.
“Where did you find that?” he asked.
“Under my pillow.”
His face remained calm. “Then we have a security breach.”
“We do.”
“I’ll lock down the estate.”
“You already have.”
His eyes shifted toward me.
I took a slow sip of whiskey.
“Who was with you in the west study three nights ago?”
For the first time, something cracked.
Not fear.
Calculation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were heard discussing Sofia.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
The fire popped in the fireplace behind him.
“You have staff listening at doors now?” he asked.
“I have staff who are lucky to be alive.”
His voice lowered. “Who?”
“Elena Marlowe.”
The name landed heavily.
Dominic looked toward the office door.
A man who had spent decades trained to protect me had just revealed exactly where his concern was focused.
Not on the breach.
Not on Sofia.
On Elena.
“You should send her away,” he said.
“Why?”
“She’s new. She could be lying. She could be planted.”
“By whom?”
“We have enemies.”
“So do I.”
“Matteo.” His tone changed, almost paternal. “You’ve spent years looking for someone to blame for Sofia. Don’t let grief make you careless.”
The room went quiet.
No one said Sofia’s name to me like that.
Not unless they knew exactly how deep the wound went.
“You were driving behind her that night,” I said.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
“You were the first person to reach her car.”
“I was trying to save her.”
“You told me the engine exploded before you got there.”
“It did.”
“Then how did you know she was still alive?”
He stared at me.
I had not planned the question.
It came from somewhere colder than anger.
I had replayed that night a thousand times. The rain. The shattered glass. The flames rising against the dark Chicago sky. Dominic pulling me back while I screamed Sofia’s name.
He had told me no one could survive.
But later, in the hospital, a paramedic had said Sofia was breathing when they reached the car.
I had buried that detail under grief.
Now it came back like a blade.
Dominic’s hand moved toward his jacket.
I drew my gun before he could finish.
“Don’t.”
His face hardened.
“So that’s what this is,” he said. “You think I killed your sister.”
“I think you know who did.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Dominic laughed once, quietly.
Not because anything was funny.
Because men like Dominic laughed when the truth finally cornered them.
“You were always too emotional when it came to Sofia,” he said. “That was your weakness.”
My finger tightened around the grip.
“She trusted you.”
“She trusted everyone.”
“What happened that night?”
Dominic looked at the fire.
Then he said, “Your sister found records she was not supposed to find.”
My blood went cold.
“What records?”
“Names. Payments. Judges, customs officers, union leaders. People who were supposed to be loyal to the DeLuca family but were selling information to the Cavanaugh organization.”
The Cavanaughs had been our rivals for three generations. We had fought them over ports, gambling territories, shipping contracts, and political influence. But six years ago, there had been a fragile peace.
Sofia had believed in that peace.
She had believed the families could leave the blood behind.
Apparently, someone had made sure she never got the chance.
“Who ordered it?” I asked.
Dominic smiled faintly.
“That is the question you should have asked six years ago.”
Then every light in the room went out.
The estate fell into darkness.
A second later, the alarm system began screaming.
I fired once toward the floor beside Dominic’s feet.
He moved fast for a man his age, knocking over a chair and disappearing through the side door that led into the service corridor.
I followed.
“Lock the gates!” I shouted into my earpiece. “Nobody leaves this property!”
The emergency lights flickered on in red intervals.
I ran through the corridor, past the kitchen, past the staff dining room, toward the rear exit. I heard glass break somewhere upstairs.
Then I remembered Elena.
I turned and ran back toward the staircase.
By the time I reached the second floor, two of my security men were moving in the opposite direction with weapons drawn.
“Mr. DeLuca, we have movement near the east wing,” one said.
“My bedroom,” I snapped. “With me.”
The door was unlocked.
That was wrong.
I had told Elena to lock it.
I pushed inside with my gun raised.
The room was empty.
The bathroom was empty.
The balcony doors stood open, letting winter air whip through the curtains.
On the bed lay Elena’s gray uniform apron.
And beside it, another note.
This one had only one sentence.
Bring the old ledger to St. Agnes Church by sunrise, or she dies with Sofia’s truth.
For the first time in six years, I felt something stronger than rage.
Fear.
Not for myself.
For Elena.
Because she had become a target simply by hearing my name connected to a crime that should have died years ago.
And because somewhere in the space of one night, I had begun to care whether she survived.
I looked down at the note and knew two things.
May you like
Dominic had not acted alone.
And I was going to burn every lie in Chicago to the ground before I let them take another woman from me.
