Chapter 3 - The Gold Coast Cage
The brownstone in Gold Coast was a three-story fortress of ivy-covered brick and reinforced steel windows. It was beautiful, filled with mid-century modern furniture and a massive studio room on the top floor that featured a brand-new easel and dozens of expensive oil paints—a detail Dominic had clearly ordered based on his research of her life.
But to Mara, it was a gilded cage. Two of Frankie’s younger associates, burly men in matching dark tracksuits named Leo and Sal, sat in the kitchen downstairs twenty-four hours a day, their eyes fixed on the security monitors that covered every angle of the street.
For three days, Mara didn't leave the house. She painted furiously, her brushes striking the canvas with a violent energy, creating chaotic, dark landscapes of the Chicago skyline beneath stormy clouds. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the sound of the crystal glass shattering on The Meridian’s marble floor.
On the fourth night, the front door clicked open.
Mara stood at the top of the spiral staircase, watching as Dominic Vale walked into the foyer. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, a dark smudge of soot or grease on the cuff of his white shirt. Frankie followed him, his face grimmer than usual.
"Sal, get the medical kit," Frankie barked toward the kitchen.
Mara sprinted down the stairs, her heart jumping into her throat. "What happened? Is someone hurt?"
Dominic sat heavily on the leather bench in the hallway, his face tight with pain as he pulled back his overcoat. His shirt was soaked in crimson. A jagged, shallow bullet graze ran across his ribcage, the blood oozing through the expensive silk.
"Just a greeting card from Detroit," Dominic grunted, wincing as Sal rushed out with a box of gauze and antiseptic. "They hit our distribution center in Pilsen. Set two of our trucks on fire."
"They're pushing hard, Boss," Frankie said, his hands shaking slightly as he opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "The Leones brought in a crew from New York. They aren't just trying to negotiate anymore. They’re trying to wipe us out."
Mara looked at the blood, then at Dominic’s face. Despite the injury, his eyes were still cold, still calculating. He wasn't a man in a panic; he was a general assessing a battlefield.
"Let me do it," Mara said suddenly, stepping between Frankie and Dominic.
Frankie blinked. "What? Kid, this is—"
"Your hands are shaking, Frankie," Mara said, taking the gauze from his grip. "My dad was a cop, remember? He used to come home with scrapes and cuts all the time. I know how to clean a wound."
Dominic looked up at her, a strange, silent curiosity crossing his face as she knelt on the floor before him. She didn't flinch from the sight of the blood. She poured the antiseptic onto the gauze, her movements precise and gentle as she pressed it against his ribs.
Dominic hissed through his teeth, his hand coming down to grip her shoulder tightly. His fingers were broad, his grip incredibly strong, but he didn't pull away.
"You have steady hands for a waitress, Mara," he murmured, his dark eyes fixed on her face, analyzing the tiny scar on her chin.
"You have a lot of enemies for a billionaire, Mr. Vale," she replied, not looking up as she wrapped the clean bandage around his torso. "Why don't you just give them the docks? Is moving their poison worth dying for?"
Dominic’s grip on her shoulder tightened slightly, his voice dropping into a low, resonant register that vibrated through her chest. "My father died of an overdose in a tenement house in Cabrini-Green when I was eight years old, Mara. I took over this city to control the chaos, not to feed it. I move whiskey, I move tobacco, I control the labor unions. But I do not touch the white powder. If the Leones bring that garbage into River North, the streets will burn, and every kid on the South Side will pay the price. I'd rather die on my feet than let them turn this city into a graveyard."
Mara paused, her fingers resting against the clean white bandage. She looked up, meeting his gaze. For the first time since she broke the glass at table eleven, she didn't see a terrifying mafia boss. She saw a man driven by a dark, uncompromising code of honor—a code that was terrifyingly similar to the one her father had carried into the night before he died.
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Before she could speak, the security monitors in the kitchen began to wail with a sharp, high-pitched electronic alarm.
Leo burst into the hallway, his weapon drawn. "Boss! We’ve got a breach! Two utility vans just blocked the alley. Four men in tactical gear are clearing the front gate!"
