Chapter 5 - The Poisoned Gift
My breath hitched in my throat.
Mom.
I scrambled to my feet, my fingers shaking so badly I dropped the phone twice on the hardwood floor. I dialed her room at the St. Jude Medical Facility, but the line just rang and rang until it went to a mechanical voicemail.
“No, no, no,” I muttered, wrenching open my bedroom door and sprinting down the hallway.
I didn't care about Viktor’s warnings. I didn't care about the armed patrols or Isabella’s threats. My mother was sick, frail, and entirely unprotected in a public hospital across the city.
As I rounded the corner toward the grand staircase, a heavy hand clamped over my shoulder, spinning me around.
It was Dominic.
He was still in his shirtsleeves, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms scarred from past knife wounds. His dark eyes instantly locked onto my tear-streaked face.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“Let me go!” I cried, trying to shrug off his grip. “Someone’s at my mother’s facility. They sent a picture—they’re going to hurt her because of you!”
Dominic froze. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Who sent it?”
I shoved my phone into his chest. He snatched it, his eyes scanning the image and the text in a fraction of a second. His jaw clenched so hard I thought bone would snap.
“The Outfit,” Dominic whispered, the name dripping with absolute venom. “Sal Marcone.”
“I don’t care who it is! My mother has nothing to do with your mafia wars!” I sobbed, finally letting the wall crack. All the trauma of losing Leo, all the fear from the restaurant shooting, and now this—it all poured out in a broken wave.
Dominic didn’t let go of my shoulder. Instead, his grip softened, just a fraction. He looked down at me, and for a second, the terrifying crime lord vanished, replaced by a man who understood the agony of losing family.
“She won't be touched,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into an absolute vow.
He turned and shouted down the hall, “Viktor! Get the chopper ready on the roof. We’re going to St. Jude.”
Within three minutes, we were strapped into the leather seats of a twin-engine AgustaWestland helicopter parked on the flat roof of the estate. The rotor blades spun with a deafening roar, whipping our hair as the aircraft lifted into the stormy night sky, banking sharply toward the glittering lights of downtown Chicago.
During the flight, Dominic didn't say a word. He sat opposite me, his fingers resting on the grip of a pearl-handled Beretta tucked into his waistband, staring out the window with the cold focus of a predator hunting its prey.
When we landed on the helipad of St. Jude Medical Facility, four of Dominic’s black SUVs were already waiting on the tarmac, their engines idling.
We burst through the automatic sliding doors of the hospital lobby at 2:15 AM. Night nurses screamed and scattered. Security guards reached for their batons, took one look at Dominic Moretti and his private army of six heavily armed men, and immediately stepped aside.
We took the stairs to the fourth floor three at a time.
I threw open the door to Room 412.
My mother was sitting up in bed, looking confused and groggy, paging through a magazine.
Standing by the window was a man in a black leather jacket.
May you like
He turned around slowly, a smug grin plastered across his face, holding a single red rose.
“Well, look who made it,” the man sneered, his hand sliding toward his coat pocket. “Dominic Moretti, I presume?”
