Chapter 2 - The Inner Circle
The air inside the locked master suite became instantly suffocating.
Dr. Ferraro immediately rushed over with his medical kit, pulling out an emergency broad-spectrum antitoxin kit and preparing an intravenous drip. “Dominic, lie back down right now. That residue... if it’s what I think it is, it’s a synthetic neurotoxin. It causes localized muscular paralysis, severe tremors, and eventual cardiac arrest if ingested in high doses.”
Dominic didn't lie back down. He sat up straighter, pushing Dr. Ferraro’s hands away with raw, stubborn willpower, his eyes locked onto his underboss.
“Raphael,” Dominic commanded softly. “Who brought this tray up to my room this morning?”
Raphael stood near the foot of the mahogany bed, his face pale, his knuckles white as he gripped the butt of his sidearm. “The kitchen staff prepared the tray at seven. But three people carried it up the private elevator. The head chef, Marco... your cousin, Lorenzo... and Lucy.”
Every eye in the room instantly turned toward me.
I felt the blood drain from my face so fast my vision swam. The two bodyguards at the door subtly shifted their stances, their hands resting over their holstered weapons, their gazes hardening into lethal suspicion.
“I didn't touch his water!” I blurted out, my voice high and frantic. “I brought up his breakfast tray at eight-thirty! The water pitcher was already sitting on the nightstand when I walked into the room!”
“Lucy was scrubbing the floors on the second floor until eight,” Dr. Ferraro spoke up unexpectedly, looking up from his IV bag. “I saw her myself. And more importantly... she’s the one who noticed the poison and stopped him from drinking the rest. If she wanted him dead, she would have let him finish the glass.”
Dominic kept his dark eyes fixed on my face. The sheer intensity of his stare felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest.
“It wasn't Lucy,” Dominic declared flatly, shutting down any further suspicion with a single sentence. “She’s reckless, she’s loud, and she has zero self-preservation instincts... but she isn't an assassin.”
I didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted by that description, but I let out a long, ragged breath anyway.
“Then it’s Lorenzo or Marco,” Raphael spat, his jaw tight. “Or someone bribed the kitchen staff. I’ll bring them all up here one by one. I’ll tear the truth out of their throats myself.”
“No,” Dominic instructed, his voice cold and calculating. “If we make a loud move now, whoever is pulling the strings will burn their paper trail and slip away. They think I’m weak. They think the poison is working silently while I bleed out from the gunshot wound.”
He looked down at his right hand, which was still trembling faintly from the toxic reaction.
“We let them think it’s working,” Dominic continued, a dark, dangerous smile touching his pale lips. “Raphael, you announce to the lower ranks that my condition is deteriorating rapidly due to an infection from the bullet wound. Keep the doctor here. Limit all visitors.”
“And what about the poisoner?” Raphael asked. “They’ll try again if they see you’re still breathing.”
Dominic turned his head slowly, his dark, hypnotic eyes locking back onto me.
“That’s why Lucy stays in this room,” Dominic said smoothly. “From this second on, no food, no water, no medicine touches my lips unless she prepares it herself and hands it to me directly.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Me?! Mr. Moretti, I’m just a maid! I clean bathrooms!”
“You’re the only person in this house who isn't on someone’s payroll, Lucy,” Dominic said, his gravelly voice dropping an octave, carrying an undeniable, magnetic authority. “And as of right now, you’re my personal bodyguard’s worst nightmare: my official taster.”
Before I could protest, a sharp, frantic knocking echoed against the locked double doors of the bedroom.
“Dominic! Open this door!” a loud, arrogant voice shouted from the hallway outside. It was Lorenzo Moretti—Dominic’s ambitious thirty-two-year-old cousin and the head of the syndicate's financial operations. “Raphael, what the hell is going on in there?! Why is the third floor on lockdown?!”
Dominic motioned to Raphael with a subtle flick of his fingers. “Play the part, Raphael.”
Raphael took a deep breath, instantly adjusting his posture, slipping into the role of a panicked underboss. He unlocked the heavy deadbolt and pulled one of the doors open just a crack.
“Lorenzo, keep your voice down!” Raphael hissed loudly, ensuring his voice carried down the hallway. “The Don’s fever just spiked through the roof. Dr. Ferraro says the wound is infected. He’s slipping in and out of consciousness!”
Through the crack in the door, I caught a glimpse of Lorenzo’s face.
For a fraction of a microsecond, before he forced a look of deep familial concern onto his features, I saw it: a tiny, unmistakable flicker of dark, triumphant satisfaction in his eyes.
My stomach churned. Lorenzo knew. He was waiting for the news.
“My God,” Lorenzo breathed out, fake shock filling his voice as he tried to push past Raphael into the room. “Let me see him! I’m his blood! If Dominic is incapacitated, the family council needs to be notified immediately so we can establish a temporary leadership protocol!”
“Nobody enters this room,” Raphael snapped, slamming his hand against the doorframe to block Lorenzo. “Dr. Ferraro’s orders. The Don is sleeping. Stand down, Lorenzo, or I’ll have security remove you from the floor.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed into angry slits, glancing past Raphael’s shoulder straight toward where I was standing near the bed. His gaze locked onto mine for three terrifying seconds—cold, calculating, and full of sudden, sharp suspicion.
“Who is that girl?” Lorenzo demanded, pointing a gloved finger at me. “Why is the house maid allowed in the Don’s private quarters during a medical crisis? Get her out of there!”
Dominic’s deep, gravelly voice echoed weakly from the bed behind us, playing along with the ruse. “Let... let her stay... she’s changing the linens...”
Lorenzo sneered, stepping back into the hallway. “Fine. But if my cousin dies on your watch, Raphael... the family council will hold you personally responsible.”
Lorenzo turned on his heel and strode down the carpeted corridor, flanked by two of his personal guards.
Raphael slammed the heavy door shut and threw the iron deadbolt into place once again. He turned back toward the bed, his face grim. “It’s Lorenzo. He’s already making moves to call a family council meeting to claim the Don’s seat.”
“He’s stupid, but he isn't brave enough to act alone,” Dominic said coldly, wincing as Dr. Ferraro finally pushed the IV needle into his arm. “Someone powerful is backing him. Someone who provided that synthetic toxin.”
Dominic looked over at me. I was still standing near the nightstand, my hands clutching my apron, trembling from the sheer weight of the dangerous web I had just been thrown into.
“Lucy,” Dominic called out softly.
I stepped closer to the bed. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“You’re frightened,” he observed quietly.
“Of course I’m frightened!” I whispered frantically. “Your cousin just looked at me like he wants to feed me to the fishes in Lake Michigan! I’m a twenty-two-year-old orphan who needed a paycheck to pay rent, not a character in an underworld war!”
Dominic reached out his right hand—the hand that was no longer trembling—and gently, unexpectedly wrapped his broad fingers around my wrist. His touch was warm, solid, and surprisingly reassuring.
“Nobody touches you while you’re in this room, Lucy,” Dominic swore softly, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intense, unshakeable promise. “I give you my word as Don of the Moretti family. Protect my life for the next forty-eight hours... and I will give you a future where you never have to scrub another floor for the rest of your life.”
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I stared down at his large hand on my wrist, feeling the powerful, steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin.
I had spent my whole life being invisible, overlooked, and disposable. But looking into the eyes of Chicago’s most dangerous man, I realized that for the first time in my life... I was the only person standing between a kingpin and his grave.
