Chapter 3 - The Threat in the Fog
The rain returned to Seattle by midday, blanketing the city in a thick, gray fog that rolled off Puget Sound.
Inside the penthouse suite of the Moretti Private Clinic in Bellevue—where Dante had been secretly transferred by private ambulance at 6:00 AM—the atmosphere was suffocating.
Dante sat propped up in an adjustable bed, his chest tightly bandaged beneath a black silk robe. An IV line was taped to his right hand, but he had already refused the morphine drip. He needed his mind sharp.
Dominic stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the rain.
"The Falcone family has claimed responsibility for the hit on the harbor," Dominic said dryly, swirling a glass of scotch. "Old Sal Falcone thinks you're dead. He's already moving on your shipping docks in Tacoma."
"Let him think I'm dead," Dante growled, his voice still hoarse. "It gives us forty-eight hours to locate his lieutenant."
"And what about the doctor?" Dominic asked smoothly, turning around.
Dante’s hands clenched into fists against the bedsheets. "What about her?"
"Dr. Claire Callahan," Dominic said, pulling a photograph from his coat pocket and tossing it onto Dante’s lap. "She saved your life. But she’s an absolute security risk. Sal Falcone’s scouts are already asking questions at Harbor Ridge about who treated you in Trauma Two."
Dante stared at the photograph of Claire walking out of the hospital, looking tired and beautiful. A sharp pain shot through his chest that had nothing to do with his bullet wounds.
"Touch a single hair on her head, Dominic," Dante said, his voice dropping into a terrifying, gravelly register that made even his uncle take a breath, "and I will personally burn this family to the ground."
"Relax, nephew," Dominic scoffed. "I have no desire to harm the woman. But she needs to be moved to a safe house until we deal with Sal."
At that moment, the door opened.
Vance walked into the room, his coat wet from the rain. He looked shaken, his eyes wide and anxious.
"Report," Dante commanded.
Vance looked at Dominic, then looked at Dante. He swallowed hard. "I delivered the file to Dr. Callahan’s house in Ballard, Boss."
"Is she safe?" Dante asked urgently. "Did you secure the perimeter?"
"I... I set up two men on the street," Vance stammered. "But Boss... there’s something else."
Dominic stepped closer. "What is it, Vance? Speak."
Vance looked directly at Dante, his voice trembling. "She isn't alone in that house, Boss."
Dante frowned. "Her neighbor? Kate?"
"No, Boss," Vance whispered. "A little girl. Six years old. Dark hair. Brown eyes."
Silence descended upon the penthouse like a falling anvil.
The steady monitor beeps seemed to freeze in time.
Dante stared at Vance. The color drained from his face until he looked paler than he had on the operating table.
Six years.
Six years old.
Brown eyes.
Dante dropped his head into his hands, a jagged, broken breath tearing through his lungs as the horrifying, magnificent realization hit him like a freight train.
When he had left Claire six years ago, he thought he was protecting her from the bloody war that was about to consume his life. He thought he was giving her a clean slate.
He had no idea he had left her pregnant with his child.
"Dante?" Dominic asked, his cold eyes narrowing as he realized what Vance was implying. "Is this true?"
Dante didn't answer his uncle.
With a sudden, violent movement, Dante ripped the IV line out of his hand, ignoring the spray of blood and the agonizing tearing pain in his chest.
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"Dante! What the hell are you doing?!" Dominic shouted.
"Get the car," Dante roared, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his face twisted in absolute, unyielding desperation. "Get the car right now!"
