Chapter 5 - BLOOD TIES AND BROKEN OATHS
The private medical clinic sat unmarked beneath a warehouse near the Chicago shipping docks.
For four agonizing hours, I paced the polished concrete corridor outside the glass surgical bay, the suppressed pistol still tucked inside the waistband of my soaked jeans. Dominic sat on a steel bench across from me, a pristine linen bandage wrapped around his left knuckles where he’d clearly used force to clear out whatever opposition had tried to ambush us on the highway.
The heavy double doors hissed open. A doctor in surgical scrubs stepped out, pulling down his paper mask.
"Mr. Moretti," the doctor said, glancing nervously at me.
"Speak to her, Leo," Dominic ordered without looking up. "She's the daughter."
"Your mother is stabilized," Dr. Leo said, his voice quiet. "The extreme spike in blood pressure caused pulmonary edema, but we cleared the fluid from her lungs and ran an emergency hemoperfusion. She’s sleeping. If you had brought her to Cook County General, she would have died in triage."
The breath I had been holding for hours rushed out of me, my knees buckling. I caught myself against the cold tile wall, burying my face in my trembling, blood-stained hands. Relief washed over me so violently it felt like nausea.
"Thank you," I choked out.
The doctor nodded once and retreated back into the clean room.
I turned slowly to face Dominic. The tycoon, the mafia boss, the man who terrified city council members and federal prosecutors alike, was watching me with an expression that bordered on reverence.
"Talk," I said, my voice hoarse. "Every single word. No games, Moretti. Who tried to kill us?"
Dominic stood up, buttoning his jacket. He motioned toward a heavy steel door at the end of the hall that led into a private, soundproofed office lined with monitors displaying live feeds of the docks.
"Your father wasn't a mechanic, Avery. He was the head of security for my father, Vincent Moretti," Dominic began, walking over to a mahogany sideboard and pouring two measures of rye into crystal tumblers. He pushed one toward me. I didn't touch it.
"He was the best operative the Moretti family ever had," Dominic continued, his gaze drifting to the dark glass of the window overlooking the rain-slicked shipyard. "When I was sixteen, a rival syndicate ambushed our convoy outside Milwaukee. My father was killed instantly. Thomas took two rounds to the shoulder, dragged me through three miles of freezing woods, and kept me alive until reinforcements arrived. He was family."
"Then why did you tell us he died in a rail yard accident?!" I demanded, anger flaring hot in my chest. "Why did my mother spend eight years crying herself to sleep believing his boiler exploded?!"
"Because Thomas discovered something that signed his death warrant," Dominic said, turning to face me. "Eight years ago, our syndicate was betrayed from the inside. A coalition of our own captains—backed by the Whitmore family—attempted a silent coup. They were funneling fentanyl through our legitimate shipping corridors, something my father had strictly forbidden. Thomas found the shipping manifests. He found the accounts."
A cold dread pooled in my stomach. "The Whitmore family. As in... Vanessa Whitmore?"
Dominic offered a grim, humorless smile. "Vanessa's father, Marcus Whitmore. One of the most powerful real estate moguls in Illinois, and secretly, the biggest narcotics broker on the Great Lakes."
"You're engaged to his daughter!"
"An engagement is a contract, Avery. In our world, marriage isn't about love; it's about positioning," Dominic’s voice went dangerously quiet. "For eight years, I have been playing the obedient heir, biding my time, consolidating power, and pretending to overlook their crimes until I could locate the encrypted ledger Thomas hid before he was murdered."
I stared at him, puzzle pieces clicking together in a terrifying sequence. "The accident..."
"Marcus Whitmore’s men cornered Thomas at the rail depot. He refused to give up the encryption keys. They beat him to death, rigged a pressure tank to explode to destroy the forensic evidence, and bought off the coroner." Dominic stepped forward, his eyes burning into mine. "I paid for your mother’s house through an anonymous shell company. I tried to ensure you were safe. But Thomas never told me where he hid that ledger."
"I don't know where it is either," I said immediately. "He never gave me anything except a knife and self-defense lessons!"
"He didn't give you a file or a flash drive, Avery," Dominic murmured, stepping so close I could see the reflection of the dock lights in his irises. "He gave you something far more permanent. When you turned eighteen, did your father take you anywhere special?"
My breath hitched.
My eighteenth birthday. Three weeks before he died.
Dad had taken me to a small, private tattoo parlor on the South Side owned by an old military buddy of his. He had insisted I get a small, delicate geometric design inked on the inside of my ribcage—a stylized compass rose surrounded by a series of tiny, alternating dots and Roman numerals. “Just in case you ever lose your way, Ave,” he had told me with a somber smile. “This will always guide you home.”
I reached down, my hand pressing instinctively against the left side of my ribs through my damp shirt.
Dominic noticed the gesture. A look of fierce, triumphant certainty flared across his face.
"He hid the ledger's master algorithm on your skin," Dominic whispered.
Before I could answer, an alarm siren began wailing across the docks.
May you like
The security monitors on the wall flickered. Outside the warehouse, three black SUVs breached the perimeter gate, ramming through the chain-link fence. Heavily armed men in black tactical gear spilled out, spreading across the tarmac with automatic rifles raised.
Leading them from the front passenger seat was Marcus Whitmore himself—flanked by his daughter, Vanessa.
