Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE WITH NO LOCKED DOORS
Dominic’s penthouse occupied the top three floors of a building overlooking Chicago.
Clara hated it immediately.
Not because it was ugly.
Because it was magnificent.
Glass walls framed the city. Dark walnut floors stretched beneath museum-quality paintings. A black grand piano sat untouched beside windows glittering with rain.
It looked less like a home than a kingdom designed by a man terrified of being ordinary.
“You live here alone?”
“Mostly.”
“That explains the personality.”
Victor coughed to disguise a laugh.
Dominic removed his jacket.
Clara noticed the room had gone quiet around him.
Staff moved carefully.
Security guards lowered their voices.
Everyone seemed to anticipate what Dominic wanted before he spoke.
Clara suddenly understood something.
Nobody in his world ever told him no.
No wonder he had become unbearable.
A woman in her sixties approached carrying a medical kit.
“Mr. Russo.”
“Rosa, this is Clara.”
Rosa looked Clara over.
Then she looked at Dominic.
Something amused flashed in her eyes.
“So this is Clara.”
Clara turned.
“What exactly has he said?”
“Enough.”
“Rosa.”
The older woman ignored Dominic.
“Sit, sweetheart.”
Clara liked her immediately.
Rosa cleaned the cuts while Dominic stood by the windows pretending not to watch.
“You can leave,” Clara told him.
“My house.”
“My leg.”
Rosa smiled.
Dominic disappeared into another room.
Twenty minutes later, Clara was bandaged and wearing borrowed sweatpants.
Rosa showed her to a guest bedroom.
“No locks?” Clara asked.
“There are locks.”
Clara tested the door.
It locked from inside.
She relaxed slightly.
“Mr. Russo insisted.”
That surprised her.
“Did he?”
Rosa nodded.
“He said you should know you’re a guest, not a prisoner.”
Clara looked toward the hallway.
Perhaps Dominic was capable of learning.
Very slowly.
At midnight, she couldn’t sleep.
She wandered toward the kitchen and found Dominic standing barefoot at the counter making coffee.
His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
Without the jacket, gun, and audience, he looked younger.
Almost human.
“You drink coffee at midnight?”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“Usually.”
Clara stopped.
She hadn’t expected honesty.
Dominic poured a second cup.
She accepted it.
They stood in silence.
Finally he said, “I owe you an apology.”
Clara nearly dropped the mug.
“Did someone replace you?”
“I was cruel.”
“Yes.”
“I thought provoking you was entertaining.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
Dominic met her gaze.
She was right.
“I did.”
That mattered.
No excuse.
No justification.
Just acknowledgment.
Clara sat on a stool.
“Why me?”
“What?”
“You could annoy anybody in Chicago. Why spend two weeks coming after me?”
Dominic leaned against the counter.
“Because you embarrassed me.”
“At first.”
He said nothing.
“And after that?”
A long pause.
“You weren’t afraid of me.”
“I was terrified of you.”
“You didn’t act like it.”
“That’s called self-respect.”
“I didn’t understand the distinction.”
Clara studied him.
“That might be the saddest thing you’ve said.”
Dominic’s expression changed.
“My father believed respect and fear were the same thing.”
“And you believed him.”
“For a long time.”
“What changed?”
Dominic looked at her.
“You poured water on me.”
She laughed before she could stop herself.
It was the first genuine laugh he had heard from her.
His face softened.
Then Victor entered.
The moment disappeared.
“We found Gallagher’s accountant.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“St. Agnes Hospital.”
Dominic straightened.
“What happened?”
“Car accident three months ago. He’s been in protective care under another name.”
Clara frowned.
“That sounds convenient.”
Victor nodded.
“He contacted us tonight.”
“Why?”
“He knows Gallagher is searching for the drive.”
Dominic asked the question that mattered.
“And?”
“He says the drive doesn’t belong to Gallagher.”
Clara set down her coffee.
“Whose is it?”
Victor looked directly at her.
“Your father’s.”
Clara laughed.
Nobody joined her.
Her smile vanished.
“My father has been dead eleven years.”
Victor placed a photograph on the counter.
Clara recognized the man instantly.
Thomas Jenkins.
Her father.
Younger than she remembered him.
Standing beside Declan Gallagher.
And beside another man.
Dominic’s father.
Salvatore Russo.
Clara stared at Dominic.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Your father knew mine?”
“Apparently.”
Clara picked up the photograph.
Her father had been an accountant.
Quiet.
Gentle.
The kind of man who cried during baseball movies and burned pancakes every Sunday morning.
He had died in what police called a robbery.
Her mother never recovered financially.
Clara had been fifteen.
“There’s more,” Victor said.
He placed an old newspaper clipping beside the photograph.
ACCOUNTANT KILLED IN WEST LOOP ROBBERY.
Clara knew the article.
She had kept a copy for years.
But someone had circled one sentence.
POLICE FOUND NO EVIDENCE CONNECTING THE DEATH TO ORGANIZED CRIME.
Beneath it, handwritten in blue ink:
BECAUSE RUSSO BURIED IT.
Clara’s head snapped toward Dominic.
He looked equally stunned.
“My father?”
Victor nodded.
“We found the note inside Gallagher’s accountant’s hospital room.”
Clara stepped backward.
“No.”
“Clara—”
“Don’t.”
Dominic stopped.
“You brought me here knowing?”
“No.”
“Your family killed my father?”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only honest one I have.”
Tears burned behind her eyes.
She hated them.
She hated crying.
Especially in front of him.
Clara turned away.
Dominic did not touch her.
Good.
Because she might have slapped him.
Victor’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“What?”
Dominic straightened.
Victor listened.
Then lowered the phone.
“The accountant is dead.”
Clara felt the floor shift beneath her.
“How?”
“Someone got into the hospital.”
Dominic’s eyes hardened.
“And the drive?”
Victor shook his head.
“They didn’t find it.”
Clara looked at the photograph again.
Her father’s smile stared back at her from eleven years ago.
Suddenly she remembered something.
Something small.
Something impossible.
Her father had owned a silver watch.
After his death, police returned his belongings.
Wallet.
Wedding ring.
Keys.
But never the watch.
Clara whispered, “My mother.”
Dominic frowned.
“What about her?”
Clara grabbed her phone.
Her hands shook as she called Ohio.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
No answer.
She called again.
Still nothing.
Then a text appeared from her mother’s number.
Clara opened it.
There were only six words.
May you like
BRING THE DRIVE OR SHE DIES.
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