Chapter 2 - The Mask of Serena Hayes
Suite 402 was bathed in the soft, amber glow of recessed lighting, designed for high-paying patrons who required discretion and luxury during minor ailments. Serena Hayes lay propped against Egyptian cotton pillows, an empty cup of herbal tea resting on the mahogany nightstand. Her blonde hair fell in effortless waves over her delicate shoulders, and she had already refreshed her lip gloss, preparing for my return.
When I pushed the heavy oak door open, she offered me that familiar, petulant smile—the one that had previously disarmed my instincts and flattered my vanity.
“Dom,” she sighed, stretching a slender, manicured hand toward me. “What took you so long? You look terrible. Did you talk to the doctor about my discharge? The noise out in the hall gave me another migraine.”
I did not step toward the bed. I closed the door behind me and turned the heavy brass deadbolt until it clicked with a decisive, metallic finality.
Serena’s smile faltered slightly, her blue eyes tracking my slow, methodical movements. I unbuttoned my suit jacket, draped it meticulously over the back of an armchair, and folded the cuffs of my white dress shirt twice up my forearms. The dark, dried stains of Clara’s blood stood out against the stark linen like splattered ink.
“Dom?” Her tone shifted, the honeyed innocence peeling back to reveal a nervous tremor. “What is that on your hands? What happened?”
“You have excellent timing, Serena,” I said softly, pulling a chair across the floor. The legs scraped violently against the hardwood, a sharp shriek that made her flinch. I sat down directly in front of her, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. “A panic attack at nine-thirty. A sudden collapse outside the Palmer House. A demand that only the great Dominic Valente sit beside you to stroke your brow.”
“I was scared,” she stammered, pulling the duvet higher up her chest. “You know my anxiety gets out of control—”
“And at ten-fifteen,” I interrupted, my tone level and freezing, “an armored Freightliner smashed through the passenger side of my wife’s car on 114th Street.”
Every drop of color evacuated her face. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. The calculated fragility that had captivated me for four months vanished, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated terror of a captured operative.
“I… I don't know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her gaze darting toward the closed door. “Clara was hurt? Dom, that’s horrible, but what does that have to do with me?”
“Clara didn't just get hurt. She was hunted,” I said, reaching out to clasp her chin in my palm. My grip was not tender; it was a vise of forged steel. Her skin felt icy beneath my fingers. “And before she was struck, she recovered a manifest. A manifest detailing three shipments of fentanyl moved through my docks, stamped with the Moretti seal, and authorized by a keycard registered to your apartment on Elm Street.”
A pathetic whimper broke from her throat. She tried to pull backward, but my fingers dug into the soft tissue of her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet mine.
“Who gave you the keycard, Serena? Was it Lorenzo Moretti himself, or was it someone sitting at my own Sunday dinner table?”
“You’ll kill me,” she choked out, tears finally breaking through her mascara, real tears born of imminent mortality. “If I tell you, he’ll skin my sisters alive.”
“Serena,” I murmured, leaning so close she could smell the ozone and iron clinging to my skin. “You should be far more terrified of the man standing in front of you than the cowards hiding on the South Side. If you speak now, you leave this city on a midnight train with enough cash to disappear into South America. If you lie to me again, I will have Mateo open the window of this fourth-floor suite, and no one in Chicago will ever find the pieces that land on the asphalt below.”
She shuddered violently, a sob ripping through her chest. “Cassian,” she gasped. “It was Cassian. He told me to keep you in this hospital until midnight. He swore they were only going to scare her—he said they just needed to take the paperwork from her purse!”
Cassian. My underboss. The man who had stood as godfather to my youngest nephew, the man who had bled beside me during the 2018 gang wars. The betrayal cut deeper than any blade, slicing through the remnants of my pride and leaving raw, pulsing rage in its wake.
I released her chin. She slumped back against the pillows, hyperventilating.
I stood, adjusting my cuffs. “Mateo,” I called without raising my voice.
The door clicked open, and Mateo stepped inside, his expression grim.
May you like
“Lock her in the cellar at the warehouse on 22nd,” I ordered, walking past him without a second glance. “Take her phone. Strip her of every possession. If Cassian reaches out, make sure she responds exactly as she was coached to. The game hasn't changed. Only the players have.”
***
