Chapter 4
The morning sun broke over Chicago not with warmth, but with a harsh, glaring light that turned the snow-covered skyline into a sea of blinding silver.
I walked into Room 412 at Mercy Hospital carrying a single mug of black coffee and a small box of fresh pastries from the bakery Delia liked on 18th Street—a detail I had instructed my driver to discover three hours earlier.
Delia was awake, propped up against her pillows. The color had begun to return to her cheeks, though the dark bruise along her temple looked even more prominent in the daylight. She was looking out the window at the icy city below, her expression guarded and exhausted.
When I entered, her eyes snapped to me. She looked at my face, searching for any sign of defeat or compromise.
"She’s in the cellar," I said, setting the coffee and pastry box on her bedside table before she could even ask. "And I have Ewan's journal."
Delia let out a long, trembling breath, her shoulders sagging as if an invisible mountain had been lifted from her chest. "You found it?"
"It was in her coat," I said, pulling a chair over and sitting down beside her. "I read it last night. Ewan documented everything. The shipping routes, the payoffs, the identity of his killers. He did a brilliant job, Delia."
"He was trying to protect you," she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. "He knew you were taking over the organization after your father died. He didn't want you to inherit a war you didn't start."
"And instead, he died protecting me," I said softly, reaching out and gently placing my hand over hers. "And you spent two years protecting my mother."
Delia looked down at our joined hands. Her skin was warm, soft despite the small calluses from her nursing work. "How is your mother?"
"She spoke to me last night," I said.
Delia’s head snapped up in shock. "What? She spoke?"
"Not with words," I clarified with a faint smile. "She squeezed my hand. She reacted when I mentioned your name. The doctors are coming to re-evaluate her neurological state this afternoon. The trauma team believes the stroke was exacerbated by micro-doses of nerve suppressants Celeste was lacing into her IV drips."
Delia gasped, her hand clutching mine tighter. "That monster... she was slowly suffocating her brain!"
"Not anymore," I said, my tone turning dangerously cold. "At noon today, I am meeting the council of the Four Families at the Grand Hotel. I am presenting Ewan’s journal. By sunset, the Vandermark family will cease to exist in this city."
Delia looked at me, her brown eyes filled with a sudden, deep concern that had nothing to do with revenge. "Dominic... Victor Vandermark has hundreds of men. He controls the northern docks. It will be a bloodbath. You could be killed."
I leaned in closer, my face inches from hers.
"I have survived twelve years in this city, Delia," I said, my thumb gently tracing the smooth line of her knuckles. "I did not survive to let the people who hurt my family walk away. But I need you to promise me something."
"What?" she asked softly.
"When this is over—when the Vandermarks are gone and my mother is safe—I don't want you to leave," I confessed, the raw honesty of the statement surprising even myself. "I don't want you in my house as a nurse. I want you there as a member of my family."
May you like
Delia’s breath hitched. She looked into my eyes, searching the icy depths of my soul, finding not a ruthless mob boss, but a man who had finally found something worth fighting for.
"Get through today, Dominic," she whispered, leaning forward slightly, her forehead resting against mine for a brief, electric second. "Get through today, and I'll stay."
