Chapter 8 - The Viper’s Last Strike
The destruction of Lorenzo Moretti’s syndicate sent shockwaves through Chicago's underground.
For two weeks, peace returned to the DeLuca estate.
My mother’s health improved dramatically under Dr. Harrison’s care; the new medication had cleared her lungs enough that she was able to sit up in bed and smile when Noah and I visited her every afternoon in a private chauffeur-driven car.
My brother Noah was thriving at St. Jude's, his grades rising, his smile returning.
And Dominic... Dominic was changed.
He no longer sat at the far end of the dining table like a cold monarch. He sat beside me. He held my hand under the table while Margaret told stories. He walked through the rose gardens with me every evening, his broad arm wrapped around my shoulders, shielding me from the November chill.
We hadn't officially labeled what we were, but every guard on the estate knew that Grace Miller was no longer an employee.
She was the Don's heart.
And that made me the ultimate target.
On a cold Tuesday morning, Dominic had to leave for an emergency meeting downtown with the city’s port authority commissioners.
"I will be back by three o'clock," Dominic said, standing in the main foyer, buttoning his charcoal trench coat. He pulled me into his arms, pressing a lingering kiss to my lips that made my knees weak. "Stay inside today, Grace. The wind is sharp."
"I'll be waiting in the library," I smiled, adjusting his collar.
He kissed me once more, then stepped out into the waiting car with Frank.
At 1:30 PM, a delivery van pulled up to the security gates.
The guard at the gate called the house intercom. "Miss Miller, we have a specialized medical delivery from Northwestern Memorial for Mrs. Ellen Miller's home-care setup."
"Send them up," I said, assuming Dr. Harrison had ordered the equipment for my mother’s eventual discharge.
The van pulled up to the side entrance near the kitchen.
I walked down the side hallway to sign for the package.
Two men in blue delivery uniforms stepped out of the rear doors, carrying a large wooden crate.
As I stepped onto the porch holding a clipboard, the man in front raised his head.
My heart stopped.
It wasn't a delivery driver.
It was Vivian Whitmore.
She wore a dark coat, her blonde hair pulled back under a cap, her eyes sunken, red-rimmed, and wild with an insane, unhinged fury.
In her right hand, she held a sleek black automatic handgun.
"Hello, little waitress," Vivian hissed, her voice cracking with madness. "Did you think I forgot about you?"
Before I could scream, the man behind her grabbed my mouth with a heavy cloth soaked in a sweet, chemical odor.
I fought wildly, kicking and scratching, but the world immediately began to spin into dark, dizzying grey.
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"My family lost everything because of you," Vivian’s voice echoed distantly as my knees gave out. "Now Dominic DeLuca gets to watch you burn."
The darkness swallowed me whole.
