Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips
The air inside room 412 was artificially warm, perfumed by the faint scent of vanilla and lavender that Serena favored. It was a scent that had once intoxicated me, making me forget the suffocating pressures of the syndicate, the constant threat of federal indictments, and the cold distance that had grown between Clara and me.
Now, breathing it in was like inhaling burning plastic.
Serena was sitting up in bed, sipping water from a plastic cup. When she saw me enter, her face instantly shifted into that practiced expression of vulnerable devotion—the lowered chin, the trembling lower lip, the huge blue eyes swimming with sorrow.
“Dom,” she whispered, setting the cup down on the rolling tray and reaching out with both hands. “Thank God. You were gone so long. I was so scared. Who was on that gurney? The nurses wouldn't tell me anything. They said the whole floor is on lockdown.”
I didn't take her hands.
I walked slowly to the edge of the bed and pulled the vinyl visitor's chair forward. The metal legs scraped against the tile, a harsh, grating shriek that made her flinch.
“It was Clara,” I said plainly.
Her breath caught. It was a masterclass in theatrical performance. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror that looked entirely genuine.
“Clara? Oh, my God... Dom, no! Is she... is she okay?”
“She’s in surgery,” I replied, sitting down and resting my elbows on my knees, leaning in close. “Her car was t-boned by an industrial plow on the South Side. Forty-seventh and Halsted.”
A flicker—no longer than a microsecond—darted through Serena’s eyes. A cold, analytical calculation disguised behind a mask of grief.
“The South Side?” she asked, her voice hushed, her tone laced with just the right amount of confusion. “What was she doing down there at that hour? Wasn't she at the gallery gala on Superior?”
“That's the question, isn't it?” I murmured, my voice smooth, melodic, like a blade sliding from a leather scabbard. “What would the wife of Dominic Valente be doing in the heart of Moretti territory at ten o'clock at night?”
“Did... did the Morettis do this?” she whispered, leaning forward, placing her soft, warm hand over my wrist. Her fingers were steady. Not a single tremor. “Dom, they’re trying to destroy you. You told me Lorenzo Moretti has been looking for a reason to hit back ever since the dock seizure in August.”
I looked down at her fingers resting on my skin. I could feel her pulse through her fingertips. Normal. Rhythmic.
She was extraordinary. A sociopath wrapped in cashmere.
“Lorenzo is an animal,” I said, nodding slowly. “He doesn’t have the brains to plan an ambush like this. This wasn't an execution. It was an extraction that went wrong. Someone wanted Clara dead, but they needed her to die in a specific place, at a specific time.”
Serena swallowed hard. She pulled her hand back slightly, perhaps sensing the glacial chill radiating from my posture.
“Dom, you're terrifying me. You look... you don't look like yourself.”
“I’m tired, Serena. I’ve had a very illuminating evening.”
I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out my personal phone. I placed it on the tray between us, face up.
“While Clara was being cut out of her car, Julian Vance called me,” I lied smoothly. “He said he had some urgent financial authorizations that needed my signature before midnight. Something about shifting assets out of our Racine warehouse.”
Her eyes darted to my phone for a fraction of a second. Just enough.
“Julian is always looking out for the business,” she offered, her tone overly casual. “You always said he was the only one who truly understood the logistics.”
“Julian is a genius,” I agreed. “He told me that Clara had been poking around the logistics accounts over the last two weeks. He said she was acting erratically. He thought she was gathering evidence to file for a divorce.”
A subtle, triumphant spark flickered behind Serena’s pupils before she quickly doused it with faux sympathy.
“Oh, Dom... I didn't want to say anything, but... she hasn't been happy with you. Everyone knows she was growing distant. If she was trying to hurt your business in a divorce settlement—”
“Is that what you think she was doing?” I interrupted softly.
“I... I don't know,” she stammered, pulling the blanket higher up her chest. “I just want you to be safe. I want us to be safe. If she was working against you, maybe... maybe this was an accident of her own making. Maybe she was meeting someone she shouldn't have been meeting.”
I stared at her for five long seconds. The silence grew heavy, toxic, until the hum of the fluorescent lights sounded like a distant siren.
“You have a wonderful way with words, Serena,” I said, rising to my feet. “You always know exactly what I need to hear.”
I walked toward the door, then paused, turning back to face her.
“Rest up. Mateo has placed two men outside this room. For your protection, of course. Chicago is very dangerous tonight. You shouldn’t use your phone, either. The cell towers near the hospital are compromised by federal intercepts. If you try to make an outgoing call, it might lead Moretti’s people straight to this room.”
Her face lost its rosy tint. For the first time, genuine fear cracked through her composure.
“My phone? Dom, I need to call my sister, let her know I’m okay—”
“Your sister lives in Denver,” I replied, my voice dropping an octave, dead and heavy as lead. “She can wait until morning. Sleep, Serena. You have a very big day tomorrow.”
I stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind me.
Mateo was waiting. Beside him stood Dr. Robert Chen, the chief trauma surgeon, his blue scrubs soaked through with sweat and faded red stains. His surgical mask hung loose around his neck.
I looked at the doctor. My heart, which had been frozen in rage, seized with terror.
“Tell me,” I ordered.
Dr. Chen exhaled a long, ragged breath, running a hand through his graying hair. “She survived the first procedure, Mr. Valente. We stopped the internal bleeding in her spleen and stabilized the flail chest. But her skull suffered a massive basilar fracture. There is extensive cerebral edema. We had to perform a decompressive craniectomy to relieve the pressure.”
“Will she wake up?”
Chen’s eyes softened with that grim, clinical pity that doctors reserve for the damned.
“I cannot tell you that. She is in a medically induced coma. The next seventy-two hours will decide everything. If the swelling doesn't subside, she will brain-stem herniate.”
I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes as the world tilted violently beneath my feet.
“And the baby?” I whispered.
Dr. Chen went entirely rigid. He glanced at Mateo, then back at me.
“You knew?”
“I know now,” I said, my teeth clenched so tight I felt the enamel grind.
“The blunt force trauma was too severe,” Chen said quietly. “The placental abruption was complete before she even arrived in the ambulance. We had to perform an emergency D&C to save her from septic shock. I’m sorry, Dominic. The child is gone.”
The world didn't shatter. It went black.
The unborn life, the eight weeks of silent hope Clara had carried in her body while I was touching another woman, had been extinguished in a spray of shattered glass and motor oil on 47th Street.
“Dr. Chen,” I said, opening my eyes. They were completely dry. The tears had burned away into pure, cold sulfur. “Keep her alive. Use every machine, every specialist, every illegal drug in the hemisphere if you have to. If she dies, Northwestern doesn’t get a new wing next year. Northwestern burns to the ground.”
“We will do everything humanly possible,” Chen whispered, bowing his head and hurrying down the hall.
I turned to Mateo.
“Where is Julian?”
“He’s at his home in Lake Forest,” Mateo answered, checking his watch. “He called ten minutes ago asking for an update on Clara. He said he was assembling the legal team in case the feds raid our offices in the morning.”
“Good,” I said. “Have eight men surround his estate. Don't touch him yet. Cut his landlines. Jam his satellite transponders. But leave his personal cell open. I want to watch him squirm when he realizes the dead don't stay buried.”
“And what about the truck?” Mateo asked. “The plow that hit them?”
“You said it was an abandoned foundry on 47th?”
“Yeah.”
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“Bring the car around,” I said, pulling on my black leather gloves, snapping the button shut at my wrists. “I need to visit Lorenzo Moretti’s backyard.”
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