Chapter 2 - The Fortress in the Sky
I didn't go back to my tiny, one-bedroom apartment in the suburbs. Dominic’s motorcade—three black SUVs with tinted windows—drove straight into the heart of the city, descending into a highly secure, private underground parking facility.
I was escorted into a private elevator that required biometric scans to operate. When the doors opened, I stepped into a sprawling penthouse that occupied the entire top floor of the Russo Tower. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a 360-degree view of the Chicago skyline, the storm clouds rolling over Lake Michigan matching the turbulent reality of my new life. The space was a fortress of marble, dark wood, and masculine luxury, softened only by the sheer amount of sunlight pouring in.
“Your apartment is being packed as we speak,” Dominic said, taking off his black overcoat and tossing it to an awaiting associate. “Anything you need will be replaced. Anything you want, you ask.”
“Dominic, you can’t just abduct me,” I said, wrapping my arms around my white dress, suddenly feeling very small in the cavernous space. “I have a life. I have an event planning business.”
“Your business is currently operating at a forty percent loss, Chloe,” Dominic replied smoothly, pouring himself a glass of bourbon from a crystal decanter. He didn't offer me any, pointing instead to a glass of chilled water waiting on the island. “I had my accountants look into it the moment my men located you three weeks ago.”
My jaw dropped. “You’ve known where I was for three weeks?”
Dominic walked toward me, the ice clinking softly in his glass. “I’ve known where you were since the morning you slipped out of my hotel room. You dropped a receipt from your dry cleaners on the floor. I let you have your space because I assumed you were traumatized by the shooting. I kept a protective detail on you. But when my men reported you buying prenatal vitamins and visiting an obstetrician... I stepped in.”
He set his drink down and stepped into my space, towering over me. His large hand once again found the curve of my stomach. It was an instinctual gesture for him now, a territorial claim that made my pulse race.
“You are carrying a Russo,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest. “In my world, a vulnerability like this is a death sentence if not properly guarded. You will live here. You will be protected by my best men. And you will never, ever run from me again.”
“I’m not a prisoner,” I argued, though the fight in my voice was weak. The truth was, after months of crying over Derek’s betrayal and struggling to pay rent while dealing with morning sickness, the solid, immovable strength of Dominic Russo was intoxicating.
“You are a queen,” Dominic corrected softly, leaning down so his lips brushed my ear. “And queens do not live in peasant squalor. You will have everything you desire, Chloe. But my child—our child—stays under my roof.”
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The next few weeks were a surreal blur. I traded late-night budgeting panic for silk pajamas and a private chef who catered to my bizarre pregnancy cravings at 3:00 AM. Dominic, the ruthless head of a criminal syndicate, proved to be an obsessively attentive partner. He attended every follow-up appointment, his terrifying presence forcing the best specialists in the state to clear their schedules. At night, he would lie beside me in the massive California king bed, his tattooed arm wrapped protectively around my waist, his hand resting over our baby.
I was safe. But in the underworld, safety is always an illusion waiting to shatter.
