Chapter 4 - The One Detail Victor Shouldn't Have Known
For ten seconds, nobody in the safe house moved.
Then Matteo crossed the room, pulled the curtains shut, and began issuing orders into his phone.
Dominic did not speak until every window had been checked and two additional security teams were on the block.
"Nobody leaves alone," he said. "Nobody uses a normal route. Nobody calls anyone who doesn't already know Chloe is here."
I folded my arms.
"That is an impressive list of rules for a house that is apparently already compromised."
His eyes flicked toward me.
"You're not wrong."
I expected him to defend his people.
Instead, he turned to Matteo.
"Search our own equipment. Her bag, her coat, everything that came from the apartment."
Matteo nodded.
"You think I brought the leak with me?" I asked.
"I think Daniel had access to you before we took him down. If the location wasn't leaked by a person, it may have been leaked by an object."
That possibility had not occurred to me.
It made me feel worse.
Matteo searched the seams of my duffel bag first, then the lining of my coat.
He stopped at the inside hem.
"Here."
He cut two stitches and held up something smaller than a coin.
A tracking device.
My stomach dropped.
"That was in my coat?"
"Looks like Daniel planted it when he was in your apartment hallway or during the struggle," Matteo said.
Dominic exhaled once.
Relief crossed his face, but it was not complete relief.
"It explains the photograph," he said. "It doesn't explain everything else."
"But it means one of your people didn't necessarily betray you," I said.
"Necessarily is doing a lot of work in that sentence."
Matteo slipped the tracker into an evidence bag.
"I'll send it out."
He made it three steps before the lights died.
The entire house went black.
I froze.
Somewhere outside, tires screamed.
Then glass shattered downstairs.
"Move," Dominic said.
His hand closed around mine.
We ran.
The safe house had a rear stairwell hidden behind a pantry door. I did not ask why. Dominic did not explain. Smoke began curling beneath the kitchen ceiling before we reached the first landing.
"Fire?" I coughed.
"Distraction," Matteo said behind us. "Maybe both."
A deafening crash came from the front room.
I stumbled on the stairs.
Dominic caught me around the waist and pulled me upright.
"I've got you."
It should not have mattered in that moment.
But it did.
We escaped into a narrow alley behind the townhouse while security moved toward the front. Rain slapped my face. Someone shouted. Another black SUV swung into the alley.
Dominic opened the door and pushed me inside.
Then he flinched.
I saw the blood on his sleeve.
"You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"That is a man's favorite sentence right before something becomes my problem. Get in the car."
Matteo glanced at me.
Dominic actually looked irritated.
"Chloe."
"You were poisoned forty-eight hours ago and you're bleeding. I don't care how many companies you own. Sit down."
Matteo's mouth twitched.
Dominic got into the car.
I decided not to enjoy the victory too much.
The new location was farther north, an old Romano family property near the coast. It sat behind stone walls and bare November trees, with the Atlantic visible beyond the back lawn.
Dominic's injury turned out to be a deep cut from broken glass, not a bullet wound.
He still needed stitches.
A private doctor came.
I watched from the doorway while Dominic sat at a kitchen island in a white shirt rolled to the elbows, allowing the doctor to close the cut in his upper arm without anesthetic.
"You know they invented pain medication for a reason," I said.
"I was recently poisoned. I'm limiting unnecessary substances."
"That is annoyingly reasonable."
"I've been accused of worse."
The doctor left after checking his blood pressure twice and making Dominic promise to call if his heart rhythm changed.
I stood by the sink, suddenly exhausted.
The last two days felt like two months.
I had been fired.
Blacklisted.
Threatened.
Nearly attacked in my own home.
Then I learned my mother had spent seventeen years carrying evidence tied to a Romano death.
I wanted one normal thing.
So I opened a cabinet.
"What are you doing?" Dominic asked.
"Looking for food."
"There's staff."
"I know how kitchens work. I don't need staff to make grilled cheese."
He looked genuinely puzzled.
"Grilled cheese?"
I turned around.
"Do not tell me you've never had grilled cheese."
"I've had grilled cheese."
"You hesitated."
"I was considering whether answering honestly would create more work for me."
"That means no."
Twenty minutes later, Boston's most feared mafia boss was sitting at a kitchen table eating grilled cheese and canned tomato soup.
He took one bite.
Then another.
"Well?" I asked.
"Acceptable."
"That is the most insulting compliment I've ever received."
"You asked."
For the first time since he had arrived at my apartment, I laughed.
A real laugh.
Dominic stared at me.
Not in a threatening way.
In a way that made me suddenly aware that I was wearing borrowed sweatpants, my hair was a mess, and he was still Dominic Romano.
I looked down at my soup.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You were staring."
"You haven't laughed since I met you."
"You met me while you were turning blue. The timing wasn't ideal."
Something softened in his face.
Then the front door opened.
A woman walked in wearing a camel coat, black boots, and the expression of someone prepared to argue with the building itself.
She was about thirty-two, elegant without trying, and looked enough like Dominic that I knew immediately who she was.
"Sofia," he said.
"You got attacked again and didn't call me."
"I was busy."
"You have a phone."
"It was also busy."
She rolled her eyes, walked past him, and looked at me.
"You must be Chloe."
I stood.
"You must be the only person in Boston who talks to him like that."
"Not the only one. Just the only one who survives doing it regularly."
Dominic sighed.
"Sofia."
She ignored him and hugged me.
I went rigid from surprise.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For saving my brother when everyone else in that restaurant apparently forgot they were human."
Something in my chest tightened.
"I just did what anyone should have done."
"That's why it matters."
She released me.
Then her expression changed.
"I came because Victor called me."
Dominic's attention sharpened.
"When?"
"An hour ago. He wants me to sign emergency trust documents."
"What documents?"
"Temporary voting control if you're incapacitated."
"To who?"
Sofia's mouth tightened.
"Him."
Dominic stood.
"Send everything to my attorney. Sign nothing."
"I wasn't planning to. He said it was standard contingency planning after your hospitalization."
"It isn't."
"I know."
I looked between them.
"What happens if Dominic dies?"
The room went quiet.
Sofia answered.
"The family companies are held through several trusts. Dominic controls most voting rights. I inherit a large minority interest, but Victor becomes temporary managing trustee under an old succession clause until a review is completed."
"So if Dominic dies, Victor gets control."
"Temporarily," she said.
Dominic's expression was grim.
"Long enough."
The next morning, Victor Romano arrived.
Nobody had invited him.
That was the first thing I disliked.
The second was the way the security guards at the gate hesitated before stopping him.
Victor was sixty-four, silver-haired, perfectly dressed, and warm in the practiced way of men who had spent decades making other people feel chosen.
He kissed Sofia's cheek.
He embraced Dominic carefully around the injured arm.
Then he turned to me.
"Miss Henderson."
He took my hand.
His smile was gentle.
His eyes were not.
"I owe you a debt our family can never repay."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
His cologne drifted between us.
Sweet.
Smoky.
Something like cloves.
I remembered a note in my mother's file.
The man outside ICU smelled like sweet smoke. Same man met Bellamy later.
My pulse jumped.
Victor released my hand.
"You have your mother's courage."
Every sound in the room vanished for me.
I looked at Dominic.
He had gone still.
Sofia's eyes narrowed.
Victor's smile remained in place.
I spoke carefully.
"You knew my mother?"
A pause.
Tiny.
But real.
"Your surname is familiar," he said. "Dominic told me she worked at St. Catherine's."
Dominic's voice turned cold.
"No, I didn't."
Victor looked at him.
"You must have."
"I have not spoken to you since before I was poisoned."
The smile disappeared.
Just for a second.
Then Victor recovered.
"Thomas may have mentioned it."
"Thomas didn't know her first name until yesterday," Dominic said.
Nobody moved.
Victor looked at me again.
"I may be remembering old records. It was a long time ago."
"Seventeen years," I said.
His eyes changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"Yes," he said softly. "Seventeen years."
Dominic stepped between us.
"We're done for today."
Victor's face hardened.
"Be careful, nephew. Surviving one attack can make a man see enemies everywhere."
Dominic held his gaze.
"Sometimes it makes him finally see the one who's been standing beside him."
Victor said nothing.
He walked out without another word.
The moment the front door closed, Sofia whispered, "He knew."
Dominic did not answer.
I looked at the doorway where Victor had disappeared.
My mother had spent seventeen years afraid of someone who smelled like sweet smoke.
May you like
Victor Romano had just walked into the room carrying that scent.
And he had known who she was before anyone had told him.
