Chapter 4 – THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT

A gunshot shattered the air inside the armored SUV.

I screamed, pressing Noah’s head into my chest. But the bullet didn’t hit Dominic.

Dominic had moved with terrifying speed. He kicked the partition, slamming the heavy reinforced glass upward just as the driver fired. The bullet embedded itself in the bulletproof divider, cracking the glass into a spiderweb.

Before the driver could lower the glass again, Dominic pulled his own weapon from his shoulder holster and fired through the front passenger seat.

The driver slumped over the steering wheel.

The heavy SUV veered off the road, crashing through a chain-link fence and coming to a violent stop in an abandoned construction site. Airbags deployed with a deafening pop in the front seat.

In the back, there was only the sound of Noah crying and my own ragged breathing.

Dominic immediately reached for us. “Are you hurt? Claire, look at me.”

“We’re fine,” I gasped, checking Noah’s limbs. He was terrified, but uninjured.

Dominic kicked his door open. The night air rushed in. He pulled us out of the wrecked vehicle, his eyes constantly scanning the dark, abandoned lot.

“We can’t stay here,” he said. He reached into the driver’s side, ignoring the blood, and pulled the dead man’s burner phone from his pocket.

We walked for four blocks in the freezing Chicago wind until Dominic found a 24-hour diner. He left us in a back booth, paid the terrified cook a hundred-dollar bill to keep quiet, and went into the alley to make a call.

I held Noah, wrapping him in my coat. I was shaking. The reality of Dominic’s world—the violence, the betrayal—was exactly why I had run five years ago.

When Dominic returned, he slid into the booth opposite us. He looked exhausted.

“Marco is on his way,” Dominic said quietly. “He’s bringing a clean car.”

“He was your driver,” I whispered. “He’s driven you since you were a teenager.”

“Money makes people forget loyalty,” Dominic said bitterly. He placed the dead driver’s belongings on the sticky diner table to inspect them: a wallet, keys, and a crumpled piece of paper.

I stared at the items. Then my eyes locked on something sticking out of the driver’s wallet.

It was a photograph.

I reached out and pulled it free.

The diner’s fluorescent lights hummed above us as I stared at the image.

It was a picture of me. I was pushing Noah in a stroller through a park. We were laughing.

“Dominic,” I whispered, sliding the photo across the table.

He picked it up. His brow furrowed in confusion. “When was this taken?”

“Two years ago,” I said, my voice trembling. “In Seattle. I lived there before I moved back to Chicago. Dominic… I didn’t take this picture.”

Dominic flipped the photo over.

There was writing on the back in black ink.

Target 1 and Target 2. Awaiting the order.

Dominic’s face turned completely white.

“Answer one question,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Did you ever tell your sister you lived in Seattle?”

“No,” I cried. “I cut contact with her after she gave me that money! I never told anyone where I went!”

Dominic stared at the handwriting.

“This isn’t Vanessa’s handwriting,” he said softly. “And it isn’t her father’s.”

He looked up at me, and for the first time, the powerful Mafia boss looked genuinely terrified.

“This is my father’s handwriting,” Dominic said. “My father took this photo two years ago. But my father has been dead for three years.”

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