Chapter 3
Abigail’s eyes searched his.
“You risked your safety and sanity to enter the lobby.”
She swallowed.
“Why?”
Dominic considered the darkness of the previous 5 years.
He remembered existing like a ghost among pain and phantom explosions.
Then he looked at the wrist beneath Abigail’s sleeve and felt the fire again.
“For 5 years, I allowed the world to determine what I could do.”
His gaze became intense.
“I lived inside a cage.”
Dominic’s voice slowed.
“You brought light into this tomb.”
He held her still with his eyes.
“I protect what is mine.”
Abigail opened her mouth, prepared to object to the word mine.
His presence silenced her.
She understood that she was exchanging 1 dangerous man for another.
She also knew Dominic would never strike her.
“Fine.”
Her shoulders lowered.
“I will stay.”
Dominic nodded once.
“Good.”
He shifted and reacted to the pain inside his leg.
“Now retrieve your bag.”
His expression remained controlled.
“My leg is burning, and you owe me a session.”
Three days passed inside a suspended reality.
Abigail’s life became confined to the upper floor of the St. Regis.
Her suite was larger than her entire apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
Tommy fulfilled Dominic’s promise.
A team cleared the Logan Square apartment and brought her clothing, books, and limited possessions.
The relationship between Abigail and Dominic changed.
Professional distance disappeared.
Heavy, unspoken tension replaced it.
The physical-therapy sessions continued, but silence no longer defined them.
“Push harder.”
Dominic lay on his back upon the leather examination table.
Sweat covered his forehead while Abigail stretched the damaged hamstring.
“If I push harder, the muscle will tear.”
Her answer carried no hesitation.
“I can endure it.”
“Your pride can.”
She reduced the stretch.
“Your ligaments cannot.”
Abigail lowered his leg and threw a towel onto his chest.
“You are demanding too much from the body.”
She looked toward him.
“Since the lobby, you have been pacing through the corridors.”
Her tone became clinical.
“You are aggravating the bone grafts.”
Dominic sat and wiped his face.
“I do not possess the luxury of rest.”
His eyes became distant.
“The board is moving.”
The penthouse carried the signs of approaching violence.
Men in dark suits entered and left throughout the day.
Disposable telephones rang continuously.
Espresso and gun oil remained in the air.
Late one evening, Abigail stood inside the kitchen and prepared chamomile tea.
Tommy entered with loosened tie, exhausted eyes, and a heavy file beneath his arm.
“Unable to sleep?”
He poured water.
“It is difficult while half of the Chicago underworld conducts meetings inside the living room.”
Abigail’s dry reply brought a humorless laugh from him.
“It will become worse.”
The tea bag stopped above her mug.
“What happened?”
Tommy looked toward Dominic’s closed office.
He hesitated and then released a breath.
“Lawson did not disappear to recover.”
His expression darkened.
“He went directly to Carmine Costa, the South Side boss.”
Abigail’s blood became cold.
“Richard contacted the mafia?”
“He already worked for them.”
Tommy’s voice was blunt.
“Now he had more to sell.”
He looked directly at her.
“He told Carmine that Dominic Russo, unseen for 5 years, entered the lobby because of a physical therapist.”
Tommy continued.
“He told them Dominic walks with a severe limp and appears weak.”
His mouth tightened.
“He also told them you are the leverage necessary to pull Dominic out of the fortress.”
The mug fell from Abigail’s hand.
It broke across the marble.
Hot water struck her bare feet.
She did not react to the heat.
The kitchen door opened.
Dominic stood in the frame.
His eyes moved from the broken mug to Tommy’s guilty expression and finally to Abigail’s terror.
“Leave.”
His voice was quiet.
Tommy nodded and exited immediately.
Dominic crossed the kitchen without concern for the ceramic fragments.
He stopped inches from Abigail.
She trembled and wrapped both arms around herself.
“They are coming for me.”
Horror compressed her breathing.
“Richard sold me.”
Her eyes filled.
“They will use me against you.”
“They will attempt it.”
Dominic’s voice became a dangerous rumble.
“I am a liability.”
Abigail moved backward.
Her bare foot nearly touched a sharp fragment.
“You need to let me go.”
Her words came faster.
“If I leave Chicago—”
“If you run, you die.”
Dominic’s raised voice made her flinch.
He immediately lowered it.
For the 1st time since she entered the penthouse, he deliberately placed both hands on her shoulders.
They were large and warm.
They anchored her.
“Listen.”
He leaned until their eyes were level.
“The Costas do not care whether you run to Alaska.”
His hold remained careful.
“They will find you.”
Dominic’s voice softened.
“They will use you because they know.”
He stopped.
The walls around his emotions began collapsing.
“They know you matter to me.”
Abigail’s breathing halted.
She stared at the scarred face of the syndicate boss and saw complete sincerity.
Weeks of tension hardened into something undeniable.
It was protection, obsession, possession, and care.
“I will not allow you to remain a victim.”
Dominic moved a curl from her face with his thumb.
“Lawson, Carmine Costa, and every other man will keep their hands away from you.”
His eyes remained on hers.
“Hiding inside this tower is no longer enough.”
He continued.
“If you remain with me, you cannot remain a civilian inside a gilded cage.”
“What are you saying?”
Her pulse accelerated.
“Tomorrow, we leave the penthouse.”
Dominic stepped nearer.
“We will travel to a secure property outside Chicago.”
His voice became firm.
“You will learn to use a firearm and defend yourself.”
The heat of his body surrounded her.
“You replace fear with power.”
His eyes held hers.
“Will you do that for me?”
Abigail thought of Lawson’s hands and the bruises fading beneath her sleeve.
She thought of a life controlled by fear.
Then she stood straighter.
“Yes.”
A predatory smile moved across Dominic’s mouth.
“Good girl.”
The armored Cadillac Escalade waited inside the St. Regis loading dock.
Bullet-resistant glass and reinforced steel turned it into a mobile fortress.
Dominic stood beside the open rear door with the cane planted against the concrete.
He stared into the vehicle.
His breathing became shallow.
It was his 1st time entering a car since the explosion beneath Lower Wacker Drive.
Tommy remained several steps away and gave him space.
Approximately 6 armed men secured the dock.
Abigail sat inside the SUV.
She watched the battle moving behind Dominic’s eyes.
The same trauma that imprisoned him inside the penthouse now resisted the vehicle.
She did not offer pity.
“Dominic.”
Her voice became calm and commanding.
“Enter the car.”
He blinked and looked toward her.
His jaw remained locked.
Slowly, with visible effort, he climbed into the rear and pulled the stiff leg behind him.
The door closed.
The convoy entered the streets of Chicago.
Dominic shut his eyes and drove both hands against his knees.
His fingers became nearly translucent from the pressure.
He waited for heat, impact, and the end of the world.
Abigail reached across the console.
Without speaking, she pulled his rigid fingers from his knee and laced them through her own.
Dominic’s eyes opened.
He looked at their hands.
Her palm was soft.
The grip was firm enough to hold him inside the present.
A long, shaking breath left him.
He turned his hand and held hers properly.
He did not release it throughout the 40-minute drive to the Russo estate in Barrington.
The compound was a large stone mansion hidden behind 10-foot wrought-iron gates and dense forest.
It had been built for war.
For 2 days, it became both sanctuary and training ground.
Dominic placed Abigail under the instruction of his most skilled enforcer.
The quiet, lethal man spent hours teaching her the mechanics of a Glock 19.
Dominic watched from the patio with his cane beneath 1 hand.
Pride developed inside his chest.
Abigail did not cry or react to the sound of gunfire.
She learned to control her breathing, establish her stance, and shoot with dangerous accuracy.
The terrified woman dominated by a corrupt detective was gradually replaced by the queen of a syndicate boss.
On the 3rd night, a thunderstorm covered the estate and darkened the grounds.
Abigail sat near the library fireplace and field-stripped the Glock exactly as she had been taught.
Dominic entered carrying whiskey.
He wore no jacket.
The collar of his white shirt was open and revealed the edge of the severe burn scars across his left shoulder.
Abigail reassembled the gun.
The final mechanism clicked into place.
“You learn quickly.”
Dominic approached.
“I have a powerful reason.”
She placed the weapon on the table and stood.
Dominic entered her personal space.
Gun oil, vanilla, and whiskey surrounded them.
His fingers traced lightly along her jaw.
“Lawson will never touch you again.”
His voice became quiet.
“I promise.”
“I know.”
Abigail looked upward.
Fear had disappeared from her eyes.
Heat had replaced it.
“I am not afraid of him.”
She took a breath.
“I am not afraid of you either.”
Dominic’s discipline shattered.
The cane fell and struck the floor.
His arms closed around her waist.
He pulled her against his body and kissed her.
The contact was desperate, violent, and hungry.
Five years of isolation and weeks of tension broke open at once.
Abigail gasped and buried both hands inside his dark hair.
She answered with equal force.
Dominic moved her backward until the oak shelves stopped her.
His body pressed against hers while his mouth consumed every remaining distance.
For 1 moment, the war disappeared.
Only the fire between them remained.
The library doors flew open.
“Boss.”
Tommy entered with his weapon already drawn.
Panic had removed the color from his face.
Dominic broke away instantly.
Instinct transformed desire into readiness for violence.
He moved Abigail behind him and seized the Glock from the table.
“What happened?”
“The perimeter is compromised.”
Tommy locked the library doors.
“The Costas brought dozens of men.”
His words came rapidly.
“They bypassed the exterior sensors.”
Tommy looked toward Dominic.
“Someone provided the security codes.”
His expression became grim.
“There is a traitor inside the organization.”
A flash of light filled the windows.
An explosion struck near the front gates a second later.
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The mansion shook.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
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