Chapter 3 - The Woman Beside the ThroneBy sunrise, Tommy Rosetti had disappeared from Chicago.
No police report mentioned the shooting at the Castellano warehouse.
No hospital admitted a man matching his description.
No newspapers printed his name.
In the world Dominic Castellano controlled, disappearance was often more final than death.
Clara stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of Dominic’s penthouse and watched Chicago awaken beneath a pale gray winter sky.
Lake Michigan looked like hammered steel beyond the glass. The streets forty floors below were beginning to fill with taxis, delivery trucks, office workers, and people who believed that cities were governed by laws written in government buildings.
Clara knew better.
Cities were governed by fear.
Money.
Secrets.
And people like Dominic.
She wore one of his white dress shirts over black trousers because the clothes she had worn during the warehouse confrontation were stained with someone else’s blood.
Dominic stood across the room near the bar.
He had removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his forearms. A dark bruise from Clara’s liver shot still marked his side beneath the fabric.
She noticed when he shifted uncomfortably.
“You should put ice on that.”
Dominic lifted an eyebrow.
“You caused it.”
“That is why I know how bad it is.”
“You sound concerned.”
“I am concerned that Chicago’s most feared criminal organization might collapse because its leader was too proud to wear headgear against a waitress.”
Dominic stared at her.
Then he laughed.
It surprised Clara.
She had seen him amused before, but his amusement usually contained cruelty. This was different. Genuine laughter softened his face and made him appear younger than the ruthless man who had shot Tommy Rosetti without hesitation hours earlier.
Clara looked away first.
That disturbed her more than the violence.
The previous night had been simple.
Enemies entered.
A trap closed.
Bodies fell.
Violence had rules Clara understood.
Whatever existed between her and Dominic did not.
His kiss still lived against her mouth.
She had spent two years forcing herself to become invisible. Dominic had looked at everything she tried to hide and reacted with fascination instead of disgust.
That frightened her.
“Rosetti’s men?” she asked.
“Already leaving Illinois.”
“Alive?”
“Most of them.”
Clara turned.
“Most?”
Dominic poured coffee into two cups.
“Three were delivered to the airport. Two are being treated by a private physician. One decided to become extremely cooperative after discovering that my patience was limited.”
“And Rosetti?”
Dominic slid a cup toward her.
“Not your concern anymore.”
“That answer usually means someone is dead.”
“In my business, certainty is expensive.”
Clara crossed her arms.
“Dominic.”
His eyes hardened slightly.
It was the first time she had used his first name without mockery.
He noticed.
So did she.
“Rosetti is alive,” he said finally. “For now.”
“Why?”
“Because dead men cannot answer questions.”
Clara understood immediately.
“You think Philadelphia sent him here for more than me.”
“I know they did.”
Dominic walked toward a polished walnut table covered with several folders, photographs, shipping documents, and financial reports.
He opened one.
Inside were surveillance photographs of trucks, warehouses, and men Clara did not recognize.
“Rosetti was moving weapons through Chicago six months before anyone knew you were here.”
Clara looked down.
Another photograph showed Tommy Rosetti shaking hands with a tall silver-haired man outside a private hangar.
“Who is that?”
“Adrian Vale.”
Something in Dominic’s voice changed.
Not fear.
Hatred.
Clara examined the image again.
Vale appeared approximately fifty years old, elegantly dressed, with the relaxed posture of someone who had never needed to prove his authority.
“Crime family?”
“Worse.”
Dominic’s mouth tightened.
“He does not consider himself mafia. Vale owns legitimate companies, political connections, judges, private security contractors, logistics firms, and enough dirty money to finance a small government.”
“And Rosetti worked for him?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why move weapons into your territory?”
“That is what I intend to discover.”
Clara looked toward the photographs.
“You believe Rosetti’s attempt to take me was part of something bigger.”
“Yes.”
“Then why protect me?”
Dominic’s gaze lifted.
“You already know.”
“No. I know what you said.”
His expression became unreadable.
“Which part?”
“That no one touches what belongs to you.”
Dominic moved around the table.
Clara held her ground as he approached.
“I also told you that you do not belong to me.”
“You said I could stand beside you.”
“Yes.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
He stopped only a few inches away.
“What do you want me to say, Clara?”
She hated that she had no answer.
Dominic lowered his voice.
“You walked into my ring and put me on one knee. Three days later, three professional killers found you, and you broke one man’s ribs before I could get there. Last night, you stood in a warehouse surrounded by armed men and looked more alive than you ever did carrying drinks.”
His eyes moved across her face.
“I am not interested in owning you.”
His hand lifted but stopped before touching her.
“I am interested in discovering what happens when you stop pretending to be smaller than you are.”
Clara’s pulse increased.
She stepped away.
“Do not make poetry out of violence.”
Dominic smiled faintly.
“I would never insult violence that way.”
Before Clara could answer, the private elevator opened.
A man entered without waiting for permission.
He was approximately forty, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, and dressed in an immaculate navy suit.
His dark expression changed when he saw Clara.
“Dominic.”
The single word carried disapproval.
Dominic turned.
“Marco.”
Marco DeLuca had been Dominic’s underboss for almost eight years.
Clara recognized the name.
At the Cobalt Lounge, employees whispered about him almost as carefully as they whispered about Dominic.
Marco controlled gambling operations, private clubs, labor contracts, and several businesses across the South Side. He was rumored to have personally executed three men during the war that placed Dominic at the head of the Castellano organization.
His eyes remained fixed on Clara.
“So it is true.”
Dominic’s voice became cold.
“What is true?”
“You brought the Philadelphia fighter into your home.”
Clara leaned against the table.
“The Philadelphia fighter has a name.”
Marco looked at her.
“I know exactly who you are.”
“Then use it.”
A dangerous silence filled the room.
Dominic almost smiled.
Marco did not.
“We need to speak privately.”
“Speak.”
Marco glanced toward Clara.
“I said privately.”
“And I said speak.”
The message was unmistakable.
Whatever position Clara now occupied, Dominic was making certain Marco understood that she could hear matters normally restricted to senior leadership.
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Vale contacted three of our captains this morning.”
Dominic stopped smiling.
“Which three?”
“Falcone, Russo, and Caruso.”
“What did he offer?”
“Nothing directly. Invitations.”
“To what?”
“A dinner tomorrow night.”
Dominic’s expression darkened.
“Where?”
“The Blackstone Hotel.”
Clara watched the two men.
“What does that mean?”
Marco answered reluctantly.
“It means Adrian Vale is testing loyalty.”
Dominic poured himself bourbon despite the early hour.
“He knows Rosetti failed.”
Marco nodded.
“He also knows Rosetti entered Chicago and never returned to Philadelphia.”
“So now he wants to see who inside my organization is willing to sit at his table.”
“Yes.”
Clara studied Dominic.
“Are they going?”
“Of course they are.”
Marco stared at him.
“Dominic—”
“I want them there.”
“That is dangerous.”
“That is useful.”
Dominic lifted his glass.
“If Vale wants to reveal who is willing to betray me, I will not stop him.”
Marco’s attention shifted toward Clara again.
“And what about her?”
Clara straightened.
Dominic’s eyes became colder.
“What about her?”
“You cannot seriously expect the captains to accept this.”
“Accept what?”
“A bartender becoming part of leadership because she impressed you in a boxing ring.”
The room changed.
Clara felt it immediately.
Dominic did not raise his voice.
He did not move.
That was what made the shift frightening.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
Marco ignored the warning.
“We spent years building this family. Men died. Your father died. My brother died. We fought Russians, Albanians, street crews, federal indictments, and half the city government.”
He pointed toward Clara.
“She appears from Philadelphia with two million dollars of trouble following her, and suddenly she stands inside your penthouse while you discuss internal operations.”
Clara pushed away from the table.
“He is right.”
Both men looked at her.
Marco appeared surprised.
Dominic looked irritated.
Clara continued.
“I have no interest in being handed authority because Dominic likes the way I throw a left hook.”
“That is not what is happening,” Dominic said.
“Then what is happening?”
“You are being protected.”
“I do not need protection.”
“You almost had a pistol pointed at your face twenty-four hours ago.”
“And you nearly collapsed because a waitress hit you in the liver. Should I assign someone to protect you?”
Marco coughed once, hiding what might have been laughter.
Dominic stared at Clara.
She stared back.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose.
“You are impossible.”
“You noticed.”
Marco’s expression hardened again.
“This is exactly what I mean.”
Clara turned toward him.
“Then settle it.”
Marco frowned.
“How?”
“You think I do not belong in the room.”
“You do not.”
“Prove it.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed with interest.
Marco gave a humorless smile.
“You want to fight me?”
“No.”
Clara walked to the table and looked down at the documents.
“You said Vale contacted three captains. Which one is weakest?”
Marco paused.
“Caruso.”
“Why?”
“Gambling.”
“Debt?”
“Approximately eight hundred thousand.”
“To whom?”
Marco’s expression changed.
Dominic set down his bourbon.
Clara continued.
“If Vale knows about the debt, Caruso is not being invited to dinner. He is being purchased.”
Marco looked toward Dominic.
“He is right.”
“She,” Clara corrected.
Marco ignored her.
“Caruso has debt with an offshore sportsbook.”
“Who owns the sportsbook?”
“We never identified the controlling company.”
Clara looked at the photograph of Adrian Vale.
“Now you have.”
Dominic slowly smiled.
Marco looked irritated that she had reached the conclusion so quickly.
Clara continued.
“Falcone?”
“Ambitious.”
“Russo?”
“His son was arrested six months ago.”
“Charges?”
“Federal weapons conspiracy.”
“And the case disappeared?”
Marco’s eyes sharpened.
“Yes.”
“Then Vale already owns pressure points on all three men.”
Dominic looked at Marco.
“How long did it take our intelligence people to build those connections?”
Marco did not answer.
Dominic’s smile widened.
Clara folded her arms.
“I spent years around gambling promoters, crooked judges, fixers, bookmakers, and people who tried to buy fighters. Different city. Same parasites.”
Marco studied her differently now.
Not acceptance.
Not yet.
But calculation.
Dominic walked toward the windows.
“Tomorrow night, Falcone, Russo, and Caruso will attend Vale’s dinner.”
Marco nodded.
“We watch them?”
“No.”
Dominic looked back.
“We attend.”
Marco blinked.
“We?”
Dominic’s gaze moved toward Clara.
Clara immediately understood.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You want me to walk into a hotel full of your enemies.”
“You wanted to prove you belong in the room.”
“I was speaking figuratively.”
“I rarely do.”
Marco shook his head.
“This is madness.”
Dominic ignored him.
“Vale does not know what Clara is to me.”
Clara’s expression tightened.
“I am beginning to wonder whether I know what Clara is to you.”
Dominic’s gaze remained fixed on her.
“Good.”
He approached again.
“Uncertainty keeps people honest.”
Clara hated the small thrill that moved through her when he stopped in front of her.
“You need a dress.”
“I own dresses.”
“Not one appropriate for this.”
“Appropriate for what?”
Dominic’s voice lowered.
“For walking into a room filled with men who think power belongs to them.”
He smiled.
“I want them to discover otherwise.”
That evening, Clara visited Arthur.
The long-term care facility stood near the lake in Evanston, far from the neon darkness of the Cobalt Lounge and the steel violence of Dominic’s warehouse.
Arthur Hayes was twenty-three.
Three years earlier, a drunk driver had struck his motorcycle outside Philadelphia.
The spinal damage left him unable to walk.
Medical bills consumed everything Clara had saved.
When legal insurance refused several rehabilitation procedures, she returned to underground fighting.
When that money was still insufficient, she agreed to participate in the fixed championship bout that eventually forced her to flee.
Arthur never knew the full story.
He believed his sister had taken private security work.
Clara entered his room carrying coffee and a paper bag of pastries.
Arthur looked up from the basketball game playing on television.
“Well, look who remembered she has a brother.”
“I was here four days ago.”
“Ancient history.”
She kissed his forehead.
Arthur noticed the fading cut on her cheek.
“What happened?”
“Cabinet door.”
“You should sue the cabinet.”
“It has excellent lawyers.”
He smiled.
Clara sat beside the bed.
For thirty minutes they discussed ordinary things.
Basketball.
Physical therapy.
A nurse Arthur liked.
A new rehabilitation trial.
Everything Clara wanted her life to contain.
Eventually Arthur became quiet.
“The balance is zero.”
Clara looked at him.
“What?”
“The billing office.”
He reached toward the table and handed her a printed statement.
“I asked them this morning.”
Clara already knew what it showed.
“No debt.”
Arthur stared at her.
“Clara.”
She looked away.
“Where did you get fifty thousand dollars?”
“I told you. Security work.”
“Security work does not pay fifty grand overnight.”
“Good security work does.”
Arthur’s expression changed.
He knew her too well.
“Are you fighting again?”
Clara said nothing.
“Clara.”
“It was one time.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“No.”
“It is done.”
“You promised me.”
“I know.”
“You promised me you would never go back into those places.”
“I needed the money.”
“I never asked you to destroy yourself for me.”
“I did not destroy myself.”
“You disappeared for two years.”
The words struck harder than any punch.
Arthur looked at her.
“You think I do not know why you left Philadelphia?”
Clara became still.
“I know about Rosetti.”
Her blood went cold.
“How?”
“Someone came here yesterday.”
Clara rose instantly.
“Who?”
“I do not know.”
“What did he look like?”
“Older. Gray hair. Expensive coat.”
Adrian Vale.
Clara’s heartbeat changed.
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether I was Arthur Hayes.”
“And?”
“I told him yes.”
Clara reached for her phone.
Arthur caught her wrist.
“He did not threaten me.”
“That does not matter.”
“He gave me something.”
Arthur opened the drawer beside his bed.
Inside was a white envelope.
Clara took it.
There was no writing outside.
Inside was a photograph.
Clara’s breath stopped.
The picture had been taken nearly ten years earlier.
She was seventeen.
Arthur was fourteen.
Their father stood between them.
Daniel Hayes had died when Clara was nineteen.
At least that was what she had believed.
The photograph showed the three of them outside a boxing gym in Philadelphia.
Someone had drawn a black circle around Daniel’s face.
On the back, written in dark ink, were seven words.
ASK DOMINIC WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FATHER.
Clara stared at the sentence.
The room seemed to become smaller.
Arthur watched her.
“What does that mean?”
Clara did not answer.
Because for the first time since entering Dominic Castellano’s world, she felt something more dangerous than fear.
May you like
She felt doubt.
And doubt, she knew, could kill faster than any bullet.
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