Chapter 9 - The Trial by Fire
When I opened my eyes, my head felt as if it were being split open with an axe.
The smell of gasoline and old damp wood was suffocatingly thick.
I was tied to a heavy wooden chair in the center of an abandoned industrial warehouse—the old Whitmore Shipping facility along the Chicago River. Cold rain leaked through the rusted tin roof far above.
Standing twenty feet away, pacing back and forth across the concrete floor, was Vivian Whitmore.
She held a red plastic gas can, sloshing liquid across the wooden pallets stacked against the walls.
"Ah, you're awake," Vivian laughed—a high, unnatural sound that echoed unnaturally in the vast space. "Good. I wanted you to be conscious when he arrives."
"Vivian..." I gasped, my throat dry and burning from the chemical rag. "This is insane... Dominic will kill you..."
"Dominic destroyed my father!" Vivian screamed, slamming the empty gas can onto the floor. "He revoked our permits! He bankrupt our firm! My father shot himself in his office two days ago because of what Dominic DeLuca did to us!"
Tears of wild, desperate grief streamed down her manicured face.
"He destroyed my life for a worthless nobody like you!" she shrieked, pointing her gun at my chest. "So I called him twenty minutes ago from your phone. I told him where to find you. And when he walks through those doors..."
She pulled a silver metal lighter from her pocket and flipped the top open.
A small orange flame flickered to life in the dim warehouse.
"I am going to burn this entire building to the ground with both of you inside," she whispered smoothly.
BANG!
The heavy iron doors at the end of the warehouse were blown off their hinges by a explosive charge.
Smoke and twisted metal rained across the concrete floor.
Through the clearing smoke walked Dominic.
He was alone. No guards. No Frank. Just six feet two inches of pure, unadulterated, apocalyptic vengeance.
His charcoal coat was gone. He wore a dark shirt, his eyes blazing with a fire so bright and terrifying it illuminated the dark warehouse.
"Dominic!" I screamed through my bonds. "It's a trap! The floor is covered in gasoline!"
Dominic didn't stop walking. He didn't look at the gasoline. He didn't look at the flickering lighter in Vivian's hand.
His dark eyes locked onto mine, checking my face, my neck, my hands.
"Are you hurt, Grace?" he asked, his voice deathly calm, completely ignoring the gun pointed at his chest.
"I'm fine!" I wept. "Dominic, please leave!"
"I don't leave you, Grace," Dominic said gently, taking another step forward.
"STOP!" Vivian screamed, raising the gun with both shaking hands. "Stop right there, DeLuca! One more step and I drop this lighter onto the floor!"
Dominic stopped fifteen feet away.
He slowly raised his hands, his expression devoid of all fear.
"Vivian," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive baritone. "Your father was a corrupt coward who stole from his workers. But you are not a killer."
"He killed himself because of you!" Vivian sobbed.
"He killed himself because he was going to federal prison for fraud," Dominic corrected coldly. "Look at me, Vivian. You want revenge? Shoot me. Put a bullet in my chest right now. But let Grace walk out that door."
"Dominic, NO!" I screamed, pulling frantically against the ropes binding my wrists.
Vivian’s finger tightened on the trigger. Her hand shook violently.
"You love her," Vivian realized, her voice dropping into a horrified whisper. "The cold Don of Chicago... loves a waitress."
A slow, breathtaking smile touched Dominic’s lips—a smile of absolute certainty.
"With every drop of blood in my body," Dominic declared, his voice echoing loudly through the warehouse. "I love her."
Vivian screamed in rage and dropped the lighter.
May you like
The flame hit the gasoline-soaked floor.
A wall of yellow fire exploded instantly into the air, separating Dominic from Vivian and me.
