Chapter 6 - The Penthouse Sanctuary
The Moretti penthouse on 7th Avenue occupied the top three floors of a sleek, glass-and-steel monolith that overlooked the entire financial district. When the private elevator opened directly into the foyer, I felt like I had stepped out of reality and into a fortress designed by a paranoid Renaissance king.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the city, while the interior was a masterclass in modern luxury—dark wood, minimalist art, and heavy velvet drapes. But beneath the elegance, the place hummed with quiet, lethal security. Men in tailored suits stood at strategic vantage points, their eyes scanning every angle with practiced precision.
Rocco led me through a grand hallway into a sunlit sitting room where Dominic was standing by the window, staring out at the skyline with a glass of amber whiskey in his hand.
He turned the second we walked in. His dark eyes swept over me, checking for any hidden injuries, before locking onto my face.
"You're shaking," Dominic noted, setting his glass down on a marble table.
"I'm fine," I said, dropping my backpack onto a velvet armchair. "Just... realizing how close that was."
Dominic crossed the room in a few long strides, stopping just a foot away from me. For a moment, his gaze softened, stripped of the syndicate boss veneer. "They tried to kill you because of my son. Because you saved his life. I brought you into the crosshairs, Claire."
"You didn't bring me anywhere, Dominic," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. Dropping his title felt natural now; we were past formalities. "I chose to step into that room. And I'd do it again."
A slow, appreciative smile touched the corner of Dominic’s lips. "Stubborn. And fiercely loyal. A rare combination in this city." He turned to Rocco. "Get the security feeds from the St. Jude locker room. I want every frame scrubbed. Whoever planted that gas canister had to bypass our internal filters, which means someone on the hospital board or the administrative staff is still feeding them access."
"Already on it, boss," Rocco nodded, turning and exiting the room.
Dominic walked over to a side cabinet, poured a glass of water, and handed it to me. "Drink. You need to steady your nerves."
I took the glass, my fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold danger that seemed to follow him everywhere. I took a long sip, letting the cool water calm the lingering burn in my throat from the neurotoxin.
"What about Sofia and the baby?" I asked, looking up at him. "Are they safe?"
"They've been moved from St. Jude," Dominic answered smoothly, leaning against the back of the sofa. "My personal medical team transferred them to an undisclosed private clinic three hours ago. They're heavily guarded. Nobody gets near them."
"Good," I breathed a sigh of relief. Leonardo's tiny, ash-gray face flashed in my mind, and I felt a fierce protective surge. "He needs to grow up away from all of this."
"He will," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, resolute tone. "And you helped make that possible. Which brings me to the next part of this equation."
He walked over to a sleek mahogany desk, picked up a slim tablet, and tapped the screen a few times before turning it toward me.
On the screen was a detailed personnel file. A photo of a handsome, middle-aged man in a tailored medical coat smiled back at me.
Dr. Harrison Vance. Chief of Pharmacology, St. Jude Memorial.
"Recognize him?" Dominic asked.
I squinted at the photo. "Dr. Vance? Sure. He’s the head of pharmacology. He oversees all drug distribution, including the paralytics and chemical compounds used in surgery and intensive care."
"He also happens to be the cousin of the late Dr. Alistair Sterling," Dominic added quietly.
My eyes widened. "Vance and Sterling? They were cousins?"
"More than that," Dominic said, walking closer, his eyes narrowing. "Vance controls the hospital's pharmaceutical inventory. He’s the only one with high-level clearance to requisition the synthetic neurotoxin used in both assassination attempts. Sterling was just a greedy surgeon willing to sell his soul; Vance is the chemist who manufactured the weapon."
The pieces of the puzzle slammed together with terrifying clarity. Sterling hadn't just acted on a whim. He had a family connection to the man holding the chemical keys to the hospital's supply chain.
"Where is Vance now?" I asked, my voice tightening.
"That's the problem," Dominic replied, his jaw clenching. "He didn't show up for his shift this morning. When my men went to his suburban home twenty minutes ago, the place was empty. Coffee still warm on the counter. He cleared out his office safe and vanished."
"He's running," I realized.
"No," Dominic corrected, his gaze turning deadly cold. "He's not running. He’s regrouping. And if he knows his cover was blown by a night nurse, he's going to come looking to tie up his loose ends personally."
Before I could process the gravity of his words, the penthouse security alarm suddenly blared—a sharp, piercing siren that echoed through every floor of the building.
The lights flickered once, twice, and then plunged the entire penthouse into deep, suffocating darkness.
Emergency red backup lights clicked on, casting long, bloody shadows across the luxury suite.
Dominic didn't panic. In a fraction of a second, his hand dipped beneath his coat and drew his weapon, his body shifting into a combat stance.
"Stay behind me," Dominic ordered, his voice like cold iron.
May you like
From the darkened foyer, the sound of shattered glass echoed up through the stairwell.
Someone was breaching the penthouse.
