Chapter 4 - The Siege
Dominic kept his word. The destruction of Derek was financial, social, and absolute. Within forty-eight hours, Derek was fired from his firm due to "anonymous tips" regarding corporate embezzlement. Britney, terrified of the sudden legal heat, abandoned him entirely. Derek’s bank accounts were frozen by mysterious shell companies, his credit ruined, and his landlord evicted him on a technicality. Derek was erased from Chicago society without a single bullet fired.
But the Moretti family was not so easily deterred.
A week later, Chicago was hit by a massive, unseasonal thunderstorm. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the penthouse in jagged flashes of white. Dominic was at the shipping docks, overseeing a critical transfer that required his personal authority. I was alone with the security detail.
Around 11:00 PM, the lights in the penthouse flickered and died.
The emergency generators usually kicked in within three seconds. They didn't.
“Leo?” I called out, my heart hammering against my ribs as I blindly reached for the coffee table in the pitch-black living room.
The door to the corridor burst open. Flashlights cut through the darkness. It wasn't Leo. These men wore tactical gear and carried silenced weapons.
“Find the girl!” a voice barked with a thick East Coast accent. “Moretti wants the Russo heir!”
Terror, cold and absolute, flooded my veins. I remembered the charity gala. I remembered the gunfire. But this time, I wasn't just running for my own life; I was running for the heavy, kicking weight inside my stomach.
I dropped to the floor, crawling behind the massive leather sectional. I clutched my stomach, praying the baby would stay still.
Footsteps approached. A flashlight beam swept across the rug, stopping inches from my bare feet.
“Got her—” the man started to yell.
He never finished the sentence. A heavy, wet thud echoed in the dark, followed by a choked gasp. The flashlight hit the floor, rolling away to illuminate a pair of polished black dress shoes.
More gunfire erupted, suppressed and deadly quiet, like staple guns in the dark. I covered my ears, burying my face in the carpet. The scuffle lasted less than a minute, but it felt like hours.
Then, silence.
“Chloe.”
The voice was rough, breathless, and familiar.
I opened my eyes. The emergency lights finally flickered to life, bathing the room in a dull red glow. Dominic stood in the center of the living room. His black coat was torn, and blood—once again, not his own—spattered his white dress shirt. Three Moretti hitmen lay motionless on the floor. Leo and the rest of the Russo security detail were pouring into the room, securing the perimeter.
I scrambled out from behind the couch. Dominic dropped his weapon and crossed the room in two massive strides, dropping to his knees on the ruined carpet. He pulled me fiercely into his chest, burying his face in my neck. He was trembling. The most feared man in Chicago was shaking like a leaf.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, pulling back to frantically check my face, my arms, and finally, resting both hands on my pregnant belly. “Did they touch you?”
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“I’m okay,” I sobbed, the adrenaline finally crashing. “I’m okay. The baby is okay.”
Dominic exhaled a ragged breath, pressing his forehead against mine. “I will burn the Moretti syndicate to the ground for this,” he vowed, a dark, terrifying promise. “I will leave nothing but ashes.”
