Chapter 6 - Leaving the Monarch Room
I nodded, feeling the last remnants of the evening's adrenaline begin to fade, leaving a deep, hollow fatigue in my bones. I didn't look back at Dennis Crowley, who stood frozen by the service station, or at the terrified diners watching us from their tables.
As we walked toward the grand brass doors, Dominic kept his arm protectively around my shoulders, shielding the shaved side of my head from prying eyes.
The heavy doors swung open, and the crisp, cool Chicago night air hit my face.
A sleek black town car was idling curbside, its engine humming silently. The driver, a trusted associate named Sal whom I had known for years, stepped out immediately and opened the rear door for us.
“Evening, Mr. Vale. Mrs. Vale,” Sal nodded respectfully, his eyes briefly noting my appearance before returning to a stoic professional mask.
We slid into the leather interior of the car. The doors closed with a heavy, muffled thud, sealing out the noise of the city.
As the car pulled away from the curb, heading south toward our home, I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes.
“You okay?” Dominic asked softly, wrapping his warm jacket around my shoulders.
“I’m tired,” I murmured, opening my eyes to look at him. “And I’m furious.”
Dominic offered a faint, grim smile. “You have every right to be. I told you carrying plates in that restaurant was a bad idea.”
“It wasn't a bad idea, Dom,” I corrected gently. “It was a good idea that ended badly because men like Preston Hale exist.”
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“They won't exist in your world anymore,” Dominic promised, his fingers lacing through mine. “Hale Global Logistics is going to find itself facing severe regulatory audits by morning. Within a week, Marcus Hale won't even have enough money to buy a cup of coffee in this city, let alone protect his son.”
I squeezed his hand. I knew he wasn't exaggerating. In Chicago, Dominic Vale’s word was architecture; he built realities and tore down empires with a single phone call.
