Chapter 2 - The Invitation to the Inferno
The Lake Forest estate sat behind three miles of black wrought-iron gates and ancient, weeping oaks that swallowed the moonlight.
When Clara’s battered Honda Civic rattled up the crushed-stone driveway, four men in identical black coats stepped out of the shadows, their hands resting ominously beneath their jackets. The headlights cut across the wet grass, painting long, skeletal shadows against the limestone facade of the mansion.
Clara didn't turn off the engine. She threw the door open, stepped out into the freezing downpour, and marched straight toward the largest man in the group—the refrigerator-built guard from the hospital.
“Get out of my way,” Clara said, her voice cutting through the hiss of the rain.
The guard blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of a five-foot-four nurse in blood-stained scrubs standing toe-to-toe with him in a hurricane. “Lady, you don't know where you—"
“I know exactly where I am,” Clara interrupted, her finger jabbing into his thick chest with the force of a nail gun. “Tell your boss that Clara Hayes is at his front door, and if he doesn't open it in ten seconds, I will take a brick to every single window in this over-priced mausoleum.”
Before the guard could draw his weapon, the heavy oak double doors swung inward.
Dominic Russo stood in the threshold.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white linen shirtsleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing pale scars that mapped a life of violence. His dark eyes locked onto Clara. He saw the blood on her scrubs—not his, but her brother’s. He saw the wild, terrifying charge in her posture.
For the first time since Isabella died five years ago, Dominic felt a cold spike of panic pierce his chest.
“Clara,” he said, his voice a low, rough rumble. “What happened?”
“Your war found my little brother, Mr. Russo,” she said, stepping past him into the warm, dimly lit foyer without waiting for an invitation. She turned on him, her eyes blazing with a tearless, incandescent rage. “You brought your filth to my hospital, and now my brother is bleeding on a trauma table because some animal named Lorenzo Moretti wanted to send you a message.”
Dominic’s face went completely blank. The air in the grand hallway seemed to drop twenty degrees.
“Dante,” Dominic said softly, without breaking eye contact with Clara.
“Boss?” Dante stepped out from the shadows of the grand staircase.
“Find Lorenzo Moretti,” Dominic whispered, every syllable weighted like an anchor dropped into deep water. “Don't kill him yet. Bring him to me. And burn down every warehouse, front, and safehouse he owns by sunrise. If a single brick of his empire is left standing when the sun comes up, consider yourself relieved of duty.”
“Understood,” Dante said, spinning on his heel.
Clara stared at Dominic, her breath catching in her throat. The sheer, terrifying efficiency of his command wasn't monstrous—to her, right now, it was a lifeline.
“Is Tommy going to die?” Dominic asked, taking one slow, deliberate step toward her.
“If he does,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, steady whisper, “I’ll make sure the next time I stitch you up, I use fishing line and an unsterilized needle.”
May you like
Dominic didn't flinch. Instead, a dark, dangerous fascination flickered in his eyes. He reached out, his warm, heavy hand gently catching her wrist—not to restrain her, but to steady her.
“He won't die,” Dominic promised, his gaze holding hers captive. “Because anyone who touches what belongs to you ceases to exist in Chicago.”
