Chapter 5 - The Retaliation
The autumn air outside the Drake Hotel was crisp and smelling of lake salt, but the illusion of victory lasted only until they reached the curb.
“Leo, bring the car around,” Dominic commanded into his lapel microphone as they descended the wide granite steps.
Clara was still trembling from the adrenaline rush of the confrontation. Her hand on Dominic’s arm was gripped so tight her knuckles were white. For five years, she had dreamed of speaking up, of exposing Richard’s hollow brilliance to the world. But having done it—and having watched Dominic nearly crush a billionaire’s throat to defend her—she felt as though she had stepped off the edge of a cliff into an unknown abyss.
“You were magnificent,” Dominic murmured, his voice low and intimate as they waited under the green awning.
Clara looked up at him, breathless. “I was terrified.”
“Courage isn't the absence of terror, Clara. It’s making the bastards pay while your hands are shaking.”
A black town car rounded the corner of Michigan Avenue.
Clara’s eyes flickered to the vehicle. Something in her analytical, detail-obsessed brain snagged on a discrepancy before her conscious mind could process it.
“Dominic,” she said, her voice dropping.
“I see it,” he said, his posture hardening instantly.
“The license plate,” Clara whispered urgently. “The plate on Leo’s SUV ended in 8-8-Niner. That plate ends in 8-3-Eight. And the front suspension is sitting two inches too low.”
*Armored plating.*
“Get down!” Dominic roared.
He wrapped his massive frame around Clara, slamming her down onto the carpeted concrete steps behind the heavy stone balustrade just as the town car’s tinted windows slid down.
The night exploded into violence.
The deafening chatter of automatic gunfire shredded the green awning above them. Plaster and stone chips rained down over Clara’s velvet gown like hail. She screamed, her hands flying to her ears, the concussive force of the bullets vibrating through her ribcage.
Dominic didn't flinch. He pinned Clara securely beneath him, using his broad shoulders and Kevlar-lined tuxedo jacket as a human shield. With his right hand, he drew a matte-black Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster, leaned over the edge of the balustrade, and fired four precisely spaced shots into the car’s front windshield.
Glass shattered. The town car swerved violently, tires shrieking against the asphalt, and slammed into an ornamental light pole.
A second later, Leo’s true SUV roared around the corner, T-boning the attacker’s vehicle with an earth-shattering crunch of metal. Leo and two armed Russo enforcers spilled out into the street, weapons raised, securing the perimeter with lethal military efficiency.
“Clear!” Leo bellowed over the blaring car horns. “Boss, move! Now!”
Dominic stood, pulling Clara to her feet in a single motion. She was hyperventilating, her knees buckling beneath her, the emerald necklace cold against her skin.
“Can you run?” Dominic demanded, checking her face for blood.
“I… I don't know,” she gasped, the smell of gunpowder and burning rubber choking her lungs.
Without waiting for an answer, Dominic scooped her up into his arms.
Clara let out a small, startled cry as she was lifted effortlessly against his chest. For all her life, she had believed her weight made her a burden—unwieldy, difficult, heavy. But Dominic carried her down the steps as if she weighed nothing at all, his stride long and unbroken, his muscles taut and protective.
He threw her into the back of the armored SUV and dived in behind her, slamming the heavy door shut.
“Go!” Dominic barked.
Leo hit the accelerator. The SUV leaped forward, tires smoking, rocketing south down Michigan Avenue away from the screaming crowds and flashing red lights.
Inside the cabin, Clara was shivering violently. She pulled her knees to her chest, her emerald gown ruined with dust and motor oil. The reality of the world she had entered had finally broken through the high-stakes euphoria of the ballroom.
This wasn't an audit. This wasn't a game of numbers. People were trying to kill her.
A warm, heavy weight settled over her shoulders.
Dominic had stripped off his tuxedo jacket and draped it around her. The fabric retained the heat of his body and the comforting scent of his cedar cologne.
He slid across the leather seat until he was sitting flush against her. He reached out, his large, calloused fingers gently taking her chin and turning her face toward his.
“Look at me, Clara,” he commanded.
She lifted her eyes, her gaze swimming with tears.
“You spotted that car,” Dominic said, his voice entirely devoid of panic, calm as the deep ocean. “You saved my life on those steps. Do you understand me?”
“I… I just looked at the suspension,” she whispered, a tear finally spilling over her lashes. “The weight didn't balance.”
“Your mind is a lethal weapon,” Dominic said softly. He raised his thumb and brushed the tear from her cheek with startling tenderness. “Vance knows he’s ruined. This was an act of a cornered dog. He thinks he can eliminate the evidence by eliminating you.”
“Can he?”
Dominic’s jaw set into iron. “Not while I have breath in my body. We aren't going back to the estate. It’s compromised until we sweep the perimeter.”
“Where are we going?”
Dominic looked out the tinted window as the city skyline blurred past in ribbons of neon and rain.
May you like
“To my safehouse downtown,” he said. “The penthouse at the Grant Tower. It’s fortified, off the books, and unreachable. Just you, me, and forty floors of reinforced concrete.”
***
