Chapter 3 - The Debt of Blood
Dominic’s private study was lined floor-to-ceiling with dark walnut bookshelves, leather-bound volumes, and bulletproof glass windows overlooking the stormy expanse of Lake Michigan. A fire crackled warmly in a massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across a heavy mahogany desk.
Dominic poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler and held it out to Avery.
"I don't drink while working," Avery said, sitting stiffly in a leather armchair.
"You're not working anymore, Avery," Dominic said gently, setting the glass on the table beside her. He walked over to a steel wall safe behind his desk, unlocked it, and pulled out a thick, faded yellow folder stamped CPD INTERNAL AFFAIRS - CASE #08-4491.
He laid the folder open in front of her.
Inside were high-resolution crime scene photographs from November 14, 2018. A dark, cavernous shipping warehouse at the Port of Chicago. Bullet holes riddling heavy concrete pillars. Mangled steel shipping containers.
And lying near the center of the warehouse floor, wearing a bloody Kevlar vest, was a tactical officer.
Captain Marcus Carter. Her father.
Avery’s heart hammered against her ribs. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced herself to keep looking. "The police department told us my dad fell from a three-story catwalk during a routine night patrol. They said he broke his neck."
"The police department lied to you to protect your family from retaliation," Dominic explained, leaning against the front of his desk, crossing his arms. "Eight years ago, my father, Anthony Moretti, was the head of the syndicate. He was old, paranoid, and making reckless alliances with a rogue faction of the Russian Bratva led by a man named Viktor Volkov."
"Volkov..." Avery murmured, remembering the name from old news reports.
"Volkov wanted to use our port terminals to traffic illegal military munitions and dirty weapons across the Midwest," Dominic continued, his voice darkening. "My father refused at the last second. Volkov brought twelve armed mercenaries to the warehouse to execute my father and me. I was nineteen years old."
Dominic pointed to a photo in the folder showing a younger version of himself bleeding on the floor beside a steel container.
"Your father was the lead tactical officer assigned to the port division," Dominic revealed. "He wasn't on a routine patrol. He was conducting a private wiretap operation against Volkov. When he saw twelve armed men surround a nineteen-year-old kid and his father, Captain Carter didn't wait for backup. He breached the warehouse alone."
Avery wiped a tear from her cheek, her chest heaving. "He took on twelve men by himself?"
"He took out eight of them," Dominic said, a tone of profound, unshakeable reverence in his voice. "He drew their fire away from me, giving me enough time to reach my father's weapon and eliminate the remaining four. But your father took three heavy-caliber rounds to the chest."
Dominic pulled a small, tarnished silver object from his pocket and set it on the desk beside the folder.
It was a CPD Special Operations tactical badge—Number 408. Her father's badge.
"Before your father died in my arms on that warehouse floor," Dominic whispered, "he looked at me and said, 'Keep my girl safe. Don't let them take my family.'"
Avery picked up the silver badge, pressing it against her palm, the cold metal digging into her skin. "Why didn't you ever come to us? Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because Volkov survived," Dominic answered coldly. "Volkov went into hiding in Eastern Europe, vowing to eradicate every person connected to that night. If I had publicly approached a widow and a nineteen-year-old girl in Cicero, Volkov’s assassins would have wiped you out in forty-eight hours."
"So you stayed away," Avery said.
"I built an empire instead," Dominic said, stepping closer to her chair. "I took over the Moretti syndicate, eliminated every corrupt lieutenant who betrayed my father, and secured total control of the Chicago harbor. And every month for eight years, I made sure your family's mortgage, your mother's supplemental insurance, and your medical funds were quietly subsidized through untraceable charitable trusts."
Avery’s head snapped up. "The Carter Education Trust? The medical relief fund that pays for Mom's specialized dialysis clinic?"
"That was me," Dominic confessed. "I promised your father I would protect you. But three months ago, Linda’s condition worsened. She needed daily specialized care at the Lake Forest Medical Center—a private facility that doesn't accept public insurance."
"That's why I had to start driving forty miles a night," Avery said, the pieces of her life finally coming together. "I thought the trust fund ran out of money!"
"It didn't run out," Dominic said, his jaw tightening with rage. "Vanessa Whitmore found out about the trust payments six months ago. She bribed my family's accountant, froze the disbursement accounts behind my back, and manipulated the delivery app algorithms to force you to take orders in Lake Forest."
Avery stood up so fast her chair nearly tipped over. "She wanted me here. She wanted me broke, desperate, and humbled so I would never ask questions about my father!"
"She wanted to break your spirit," Dominic said softly, looking down into Avery's eyes. "She wanted you so exhausted from scraping by that when her father’s Russian handlers framed you for the signal leaks, you wouldn't have the energy or the resources to defend yourself in a courtroom."
"She didn't know I knew how to kick," Avery said through gritted teeth.
"No," Dominic smiled, a rare, breathtaking warmth breaking through his dark expression. "She certainly did not."
Before Avery could speak, the heavy walnut door of the study flew open.
Frank, Dominic’s chief of operations, stepped into the room, his face pale, holding a high-frequency tactical radio.
"Boss," Frank said urgently. "We have a massive problem."
"What is it?" Dominic demanded.
May you like
"The perimeter sensors on the south gate just went dark," Frank reported, drawing his sidearm. "And a convoy of four dark armored vans just blew through the iron security fence. They're coming up the driveway right now."
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. "Volkov."
