Chapter 2 - Ghosts of the Gold Coast
The rain battered the armored windshield of the Maybach as it tore through the slick midnight streets of Chicago, cutting through the Loop like a predatory beast. Inside the leather-lined interior, the silence was suffocating. Marcus gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror where Dominic sat in absolute, terrifying stillness.
Dominic’s hands rested on his knees, the knuckles bruised from where he had gripped the marble table earlier. His mind was a battlefield of fragmented memories.
He remembered the day Lauren left.
It had been raining just like this. October. The leaves had been choked against the wrought-iron gates of the Gold Coast estate. She hadn't cried. That was what had infuriated him the most at the time—her terrifying, composed silence. She had walked down the curved staircase with her hair pinned back, carrying two simple leather suitcases, her eyes devoid of the warmth he had taken for granted.
“Where are you going, Lauren?” he had demanded, standing by the fireplace with a glass of scotch, his ego bruised raw.
“Somewhere quiet, Dominic,” she had replied, her voice soft, devoid of anger, which made it worse. “Where a child can breathe.”
He had laughed bitterly. “Go on, then. See how long you survive outside these gates.”
She had walked out into the rain, and he had let her go, blinded by the arrogant belief that she would come crawling back once reality set in.
Instead, she had spent eleven months fighting in the shadows—battling a crumbling body, carrying twins alone in a sterile apartment, sending desperate notices that were systematically intercepted by a jealous mistress and blocked by his own automated security protocols.
He had condemned her to isolation. He had murdered her peace with a stroke of a pen.
"We're five minutes out, boss," Marcus broke the silence, his voice tight. "St. Jude is on lockdown due to the storm power fluctuations, but I've already notified the chief of surgery. They're holding the private wing."
"I don't care about the wing, Marcus," Dominic said, his voice a low rumble. "I care about the room she's in."
The car swung hard around a corner, tires hissing against the flooded asphalt, before lunging up the emergency ramp of St. Jude Memorial Hospital. Before the Maybach had even come to a full stop, Dominic pushed the door open, stepping directly into the lashing rain and wind.
Bianca, who had managed to slip into the passenger seat of the lead security vehicle trailing them, stumbled out behind him, her red silk gown dragging through the dirty puddles.
"Dominic, wait! Let me come with you—you need me to handle the hospital administration, they won't let outsiders into the ICU—"
Dominic didn't even look back. He strode toward the automated glass doors, his towering frame radiating an aura of such lethal intensity that the security guards inside instinctively stepped back, their hands dropping away from their holsters.
Marcus fell in step beside him, while Bianca hurried to keep pace, her heels clicking frantically against the polished linoleum floor of the emergency lobby.
"Floor four," Marcus muttered, checking his tablet. "Room 412."
May you like
They didn't wait for the elevator bank. Dominic wrenched open the heavy steel door of the stairwell, taking the steps two and three at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs with a violence he hadn't felt since his early days in the syndicate trenches.
For the first time in his life, Dominic Moretti was terrified.
