Chapter 3 - The Midnight Drive to Lakeshore
The interior of the Escalade was suffocatingly warm, smelling of high-end leather, cedar, and the faint trace of expensive aftershave.
I sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield as the heavy SUV glided silently through the empty, slick streets of Chicago. Frank Varga drove with absolute, mechanical precision, his hands resting lightly at the ten-and-two position on the steering wheel, his eyes darting continuously between the rearview mirror and the dark alleys we passed.
In the back seat, half-asleep against a custom velvet pillow, sat Dominic. He hadn't said a word since I climbed into the car. He had simply handed me a steaming travel mug of black coffee without looking at me, his face illuminated intermittently by the flashing amber lights of traffic signals.
"How is he?" I asked, breaking the heavy silence as we crossed the bridge over the Chicago River.
"His temperature is ninety-nine point four," Dominic replied, his voice dark and clipped. "Mercer says it's a mild post-colic inflammation, nothing life-threatening. But he won't settle. He's been whimpering for the last hour."
"He's exhausted," I said, taking a small sip of the coffee. It was strong, bitter, and exactly what I needed. "Babies get overtired just like adults. When they pass a certain threshold of fatigue, their nervous systems short-circuit. They can't self-soothe."
Dominic shifted in the back seat, the leather creaking under his weight. "You sound like you studied pediatrics."
"I was halfway through my nursing degree at Loyola before my son got sick," I said, the words slipping out before I could censor them. The moment I said it, I regretted it. In Chicago, men like Dominic Moretti didn't need to know the private sorrows of the people who worked for them. Information was leverage, and vulnerability was a target.
The car went completely still. Even Frank’s eyes flickered toward the rearview mirror for a microsecond.
"A son?" Dominic asked quietly.
"His name was Leo," I said, staring at the amber dash lights. "Just like yours. He passed away three years ago."
The silence in the vehicle deepened, stretching out until it filled every inch of the cabin. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence anymore; it was heavy, weighted with an unspoken understanding that crossed the invisible line between the powerful and the powerless.
"I'm sorry, Claire," Dominic said.
The apology wasn't performative. It didn't sound like a mob boss tossing a coin to a beggar. It sounded like a man who knew the exact weight of an empty crib.
"Thank you," I whispered.
The Escalade turned off Lake Shore Drive, passing through a pair of massive wrought-iron gates guarded by two men in heavy tactical gear who snapped crisp salutes as we glided past. The Moretti estate loomed ahead—a sprawling, limestone-and-slate fortress surrounded by manicured lawns and towering oak trees dripping with autumn rain.
We pulled up beneath the grand marble portico.
Before Frank could even unbuckle his seatbelt, Dominic had opened his door and stepped out into the mist, holding his hand out to shield me as I climbed down from the passenger side.
"Come on," he said, his hand resting briefly, firmly at the small of my back as we hurried toward the heavy oak front doors.
Inside, the mansion was a cathedral of hushed shadows. The grand foyer smelled of burning fireplace logs and polished mahogany. Dr. Gregory Mercer, a silver-haired pediatrician with tired eyes and a leather medical bag, was waiting by the foot of the sweeping marble staircase.
"Mr. Moretti," the doctor said, bowing his head slightly. "And... ah. Miss Miller. Good of you to come."
"How is he, Gregory?" Dominic demanded, stripping off his wet overcoat and tossing it to an estate guard who materialized from the shadows.
"His fever has broken, but he's restless," Dr. Mercer explained, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "He needs hydration and quiet. I’ve administered a saline solution, but he needs someone to hold him through the night so he doesn't pull out the nasal cannula."
Dominic didn't hesitate. He looked down at me, his slate-gray eyes piercing and direct.
"Can you do it?"
May you like
I looked up at the towering marble staircase, thinking of my own empty apartment, of the cold silence waiting for me on Racine Avenue, and then of the tiny, helpless baby sleeping upstairs.
"Show me where he is," I said.
