Chapter 5 - The Hidden Scar
The hallway on the second floor was silent, carpeted in thick crimson runner that muffled all footsteps.
Dominic rounded the corner, his hand already inside his tuxedo jacket, wrapping around the grip of his pistol. The corridor was lined with antique mirrors and heavy mahogany doors leading to private meeting rooms reserved for the hotel’s wealthiest patrons.
"Clara!" he called out, his voice hoarse, echoing down the empty hall.
A hand darted out from the recessed entryway of Room 204, grabbed his lapel, and violently yanked him inside.
Dominic spun on instinct, his forearm coming up to block, his weapon drawing clear of the holster. But his attacker was faster, slipping inside his guard with terrifying familiarity. A slim hand knocked his gun arm upward, while a foot hooked behind his heel, sending them both crashing against the closed door.
Dominic pinned her against the wood, his chest heaving, his weapon pressed harmlessly against the frame beside her ear.
Clara stood trapped between his arms.
Her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Up close, Dominic could see the faint bruising along her jaw from the warehouse fight in Bridgeport, concealed beneath expert makeup. Her eyes were wide, dark pools of fury and adrenaline.
"You're an idiot," she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "You were supposed to stay in the main hall where the crowd would keep them from using automatic weapons."
Dominic stared at her, his throat completely closed. The scent of her—bergamot, rain, and cold iron—flooded his senses, shattering the icy composure he had maintained for thirty years.
"Clara..."
"Shut up," she said, her hands shoving hard against his chest. "Anthony has six men stationed on the roof and four in the service elevator. The Volkovs aren't meeting you for a contract. They're here to clean up after Anthony stages your suicide. You need to take the kitchen exit now."
"I don't care," Dominic rasped.
Clara froze, staring at him as if he had lost his mind. "What did you say?"
"I don't care about the Volkovs. I don't care about the contracts." Dominic dropped his gun. The weapon hit the thick carpet with a dull thud. He reached out with trembling hands, his fingers hovering inches from her face, terrified that if he touched her, she would vanish into smoke. "You came back."
"I came back to kill Anthony Mercer," she snapped, turning her face away from his hand. "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Vale. You made it very clear what I was to you."
*Do not confuse being useful with being important.*
The words stood between them like a blade dripping fresh blood.
"Clara, please," Dominic begged. The untouchable king of Chicago’s underworld was gone; in his place stood a broken man, stripped of his pride. "I read your logs. I saw the Bridgeport warehouse. I know what Anthony is."
"Congratulations," she whispered, her voice laced with acid. "It only took you three years and an execution squad to open your eyes."
A sharp metallic click echoed from the balcony terrace connected to the suite.
"Down!" Clara shouted.
Before Dominic could react, she spun, using her own body as a shield to throw him toward the floor.
A high-velocity round punched through the double-paned glass of the French doors, shattering the crystal into thousands of glittering shards. The bullet grazed Clara’s upper left shoulder, tearing through the emerald silk of her dress.
Dominic hit the floor, dragging Clara down beneath the heavy oak conference table as a second and third shot tore through the drywall above their heads.
"Clara!" Dominic choked, pulling her into his arms.
Blood was already seeping through the green fabric, hot and bright. Dominic frantically tore the torn silk aside to inspect the wound.
The bullet had only creased the flesh, but as the ripped fabric peeled away from her shoulder and back, the low ambient light from the hallway spilled across her bare skin.
Dominic’s breath hitched. His hands froze in mid-air.
The jagged, thick, unmistakable burn scar ran diagonally from her collarbone, wrapping across her shoulder blade down toward her spine. A map of fire and shrapnel healed into ruined flesh.
Dominic stared at it, his pupils dilating in pure, disbelieving horror.
He knew that scar.
He had felt that skin burning beneath his own palms thirteen years ago. He had held those exact torn tissues together in the icy black water of Pier 41 while the warehouse collapsed into the harbor.
*Thirteen years ago.*
The little girl with the soot-stained face and the terrified grey eyes. The girl who had clung to his neck, whispering, *“My father is still inside, please don't let me burn.”*
He had searched every morgue, every orphanage, every clinic in three states for two years looking for her, only to be told Julian Vance’s daughter had drowned in the lake.
"You," Dominic whispered, the word tearing out of his soul.
Clara tried to pull away, her face twisting in pain and shame, trying to hide the scar against the floor. "Don't look at it."
"It was you," Dominic said, tears finally spilling over his lashes, burning down his cheeks. He reached out, his fingertips gently, reverently touching the rough ridge of the scar tissue. His entire body shook violently. "You were the girl at Pier 41. You were Sparrow."
Clara looked at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her defenses completely shattered.
"My name was Clara Vance," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I came back to destroy you, Dominic. I came back to make you pay for my father."
Dominic gripped her face in both of his hands, his thumbs wiping away the blood on her collarbone, his forehead resting against hers while gunshots splintered the room around them.
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"My father didn't kill him, Clara," Dominic wept against her skin. "And neither did I. But I would have burned a thousand times over if I had known you were alive."
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