Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Iron
The black armored Suburban tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago, cutting off traffic without a single blink of its headlights.
I sat in the back seat, wedged between the tinted windows and a stack of encrypted radios. Dominic sat across from me, rocking his son—whom I had heard one guard call Lorenzo—with surprising gentleness.
“You shouldn’t have offered,” I said, breaking the heavy silence. “I’m a waitress. I have zero security training. If those men come back—”
“They won’t come back to Bellavita,” Dominic interrupted, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. “They know where to find me now. And that is my problem, not yours.”
“Then let me out at the next stoplight.”
Dominic turned his head, the amber streetlights flashing across his sharp, unyielding features. “You saved my son’s life. Then you saved him a second time from a bullet. In the Moretti syndicate, loyalty is rewarded, and life debts are sacred. You are coming with me to the estate.”
“I can’t just disappear!” I protested. “What about my apartment? My rent?”
“Paid for. Your lease has been bought out, and your belongings are being packed as we speak,” Dominic replied smoothly. “Effective immediately, you are Lorenzo’s private pediatric nurse. Salary: fifty thousand dollars a month. Plus housing, security, and immunity from anyone who thinks they can touch you.”
Fifty thousand a month. It was an absurd, life-altering sum—enough to pay off my mother’s medical debts twice over and live comfortably for the rest of my life. But looking at Dominic Moretti, I knew the golden handcuffs came with a very steep price.
Forty-five minutes later, the vehicle turned through massive wrought-iron gates topped with security cameras and armed guard towers.
The Moretti estate looked less like a home and more like a medieval fortress dropped into the affluent suburbs of the North Shore. Stone walls, sprawling gardens obscured by the sheet rain, and armed patrols at every corner.
As the car came to a halt under the grand portico, Viktor opened my door.
“Welcome to the lions' den, Ms. Vance,” Viktor said, offering a hand that I pointedly ignored as I stepped out into the cold drizzle.
Dominic walked beside me, carrying the baby up the wide marble steps. Heavy oak doors swung open automatically, revealing a cavernous foyer lit by a crystal chandelier the size of a car.
May you like
And waiting at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a silk designer robe with an expression carved entirely of ice, was a woman who made the armed bodyguards look like children.
“Dominic,” she said, her voice sharp as glass. “Who is this, and why is there blood on your sleeve?”
