Chapter 6 - The Alliance of Ghosts
The silence in the penthouse was heavy enough to crush bone. For six years, I had lived under the roof of the man I believed was ultimately responsible for destroying my family. Every day I had cleaned his floors, polished his silver, and watched him from the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to find proof, to find a weakness, to make him pay.
And now, here we were, standing twenty feet above the grounds of his fortress, holding secrets that could get us both killed.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice shaking but my spine straightening as I met his cold gaze. “I came here to find out if you were the monster my mother spent her dying breath weeping over. I wanted to see the man who ordered my father’s execution.”
Dominic didn't reach for his gun. He didn't call his guards. He poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler, swirled it slowly, and stared into the glass.
“If I had ordered your father’s death, Clara, you wouldn't have survived your first week here as a maid,” he said flatly. He took a slow sip. “Your father was an honest man in a world of absolute vipers. I respected him more than the corrupt federal judges who took bribes from the Chicago mobs. When he died, I lost thirty million dollars in untraceable shipping assets that the Silverios stole while your father’s office was being ransacked.”
He set the glass down with a sharp clink.
“We share an enemy, Clara. The Corsicans and the Silverios formed a secret coalition six months ago. They aren't just trying to take over my territory in New York—they’re trying to eliminate every remaining traditional family on the East Coast and replace them with a transnational cartel.”
He walked over to the window, looking out over the sprawling, manicured lawns lit by security floodlights.
“Your daughter saved my son tonight,” Dominic continued, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “And you kept your mouth shut for six years while looking for vengeance, which tells me you have the discipline of a soldier. Right now, I don't care about your past. I care about surviving the next forty-eight hours.”
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“What do you want me to do?” I asked, the hatred in my chest momentarily overshadowed by the stark reality of survival.
“The Corsicans think their assassin succeeded in planting confusion tonight,” Dominic said, turning back around with a lethal glint in his eye. “They think my house is crippled. Tomorrow morning, we are going to let them think they’ve won. And we are going to invite them to the table.”
