Chapter 3 - THE GOLD COAST AMBUSHThirty minutes later, the convoy pulled through the wrought-iron security gates of a sprawling, heavily fortified estate nestled quietly in the northern suburbs of Chicago, far away from the prying eyes of downtown.
It was a fortress disguised as a mansion—surrounded by towering pines, thick stone walls, and discreet security cameras that hummed with quiet vigilance.
As the Maybach came to a smooth halt, the door was pulled open not by a driver, but by a towering, broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down his jawline—Viktor, Dominic's long-time head of security and enforcer.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Vale," Viktor said, his deep voice carrying a strange, unquestionable finality.
Claire froze with one foot on the running board. "Viktor, I am not—"
"You're not married to Grant anymore," Dominic interrupted, stepping out behind her and gently placing a warm, heavy hand at the small of her back, guiding her out of the biting wind. "And as of right now, this is the only place in Illinois where Grant Mercer's lawyers, private investigators, and city cronies cannot touch you."
The interior of the mansion was breathtaking—a stunning blend of old-world mahogany, modern minimalist art, and roaring stone fireplaces that immediately chased away the winter chill. But Claire barely noticed the decor. Her mind was racing, hyper-focused on the immediate fallout of what had just happened outside the courthouse.
"Grant knows who you are," Claire said, pacing across the hardwood floor of the grand foyer, her heels clicking sharply. "When he saw you step out of that car, the color drained right out of his face. He's going to panic. He's going to try to liquidate everything, move whatever cash he has left offshore, and run."
"Let him run," Dominic said calmly, shrugging off his heavy coat and handing it to an attendant. He walked over to a built-in wet bar, pouring two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. "Viktor, status on the Mercer accounts?"
Viktor stepped into the foyer, tapping away on his own encrypted device. "Frozen thirty seconds after we cleared the Chicago River bridge, Boss. All domestic corporate holdings of Harbor Lights have been locked under emergency judicial receivership thanks to the preliminary forensic data Mrs. Vale's accountant provided. Furthermore, our contacts at the SEC have flagged Grant's personal portfolio for immediate audit due to suspicious transnational wire flows."
Claire stopped pacing. She stared at Viktor, then at Dominic. "You... you had the SEC pre-pped?"
"When you spend a decade building a logistics empire, Claire, you learn how to grease the wheels of bureaucracy," Dominic said, walking over and handing her a crystal glass. The rich scent of aged scotch washed over her senses. "Grant thought he was the smartest man in the room because he could charm a room full of donors. He didn't realize that in the real world, power isn't held by the people who smile for cameras. It's held by the people who own the ledgers."
Claire took the glass, her fingers brushing against Dominic's. The contact sent a sharp, electric shock straight up her arm—a sensation she hadn't felt in four long, lonely years.
Before she could pull away, a sharp, urgent chime echoed through the foyer.
Viktor looked down at his tablet, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "Boss, we have an incoming encrypted satellite feed from downtown. Grant Mercer didn't go home. He just checked into the executive suite at the Drake Hotel... and he’s placing an emergency call to Marcus Sterling."
Dominic’s expression darkened instantly, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees.
May you like
Marcus Sterling—the city's most corrupt federal prosecutor and the man who had tried to put Dominic away four years ago.
"So," Dominic murmured, a dangerous light glinting in his dark eyes. "Grant is calling in his heavy artillery."
