Chapter 7 - A Desperate Call
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The penthouse was breathtaking, a minimalist masterpiece of glass, steel, and dark velvet. But to Chloe, it felt exactly like a highly decorated prison cell. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Boston harbor, but they were lined with bulletproof reinforcement.
Dominic immediately walked to a sleek glass dining table, pulling out a specialized encrypted satellite phone. He began barking orders to his lieutenants in a language of violence and strategy that made Chloe’s blood run cold.
“I want three tactical teams sweeping South Boston,” Dominic commanded into the phone. “Tommy Adams is bleeding in an alley near the old shipyard. Find him before Volkov’s sweepers do. Bring a trauma surgeon in the van. Do not bring him to the hospital, they have eyes everywhere. Go.”
He hung up the phone and finally turned his attention back to Chloe. She was standing awkwardly by the kitchen island, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her black apron.
“Take off the uniform,” Dominic said flatly.
Chloe froze, her eyes widening in shock and fear. “What?”
Dominic sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, looking genuinely exhausted for the first time all night. “You are covered in sweat, spilled alcohol, and subway dirt. There is a master bathroom down the hall to the left. Clean towels, new clothes in the closet. Take a shower, Chloe. You are perfectly safe here. I do not prey on terrified women.”
A hot flush of embarrassment hit her cheeks. She nodded slowly, retreating down the long, shadowed hallway.
The bathroom was the size of her entire apartment, featuring a massive marble rainfall shower. She stripped off the cheap, restrictive uniform and let the scalding water wash away the physical grime of the night, though the internal terror remained firmly planted in her chest. Tommy was shot. The Russian mob was hunting her. And the most dangerous man in Boston was currently pacing in the living room, treating her like a chess piece.
When she emerged twenty minutes later, she was wearing a pair of oversized gray sweatpants and a soft cashmere sweater she had found in the guest closet. She walked back out to the main living area.
Dominic was standing by the window, a fresh glass of bourbon in his hand, staring out at the city lights. He looked over his shoulder as she entered. His dark eyes swept over her, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary on her damp, unbound hair.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
“I feel like a hostage wearing expensive clothes,” Chloe replied honestly, wrapping her arms around herself. “Did they find him? Did they find my brother?”
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Dominic turned fully toward her, his expression grim and unreadable.
“My men found the alley,” Dominic said, his voice devoid of any comforting warmth. “They found a massive pool of blood. But they didn't find Tommy.”
