Chapter 2 - The Wabash Safehouse
By midnight, the city outside the tinted windows of Dominic’s black SUV had dissolved into a blurred montage of rain-slicked asphalt and neon streetlights. We weren't heading toward the police precinct or even the Russo family estate in the northern suburbs. We were heading deep into the industrial district, toward a crumbling commercial block on Wabash Avenue where abandoned brick warehouses stood like rotting teeth against the dark sky.
I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the empty streets while the windshield wipers kept up a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The small velvet box containing Gemma’s ring rested safely in my coat pocket, heavy and cold against my ribs.
“You shouldn't be here,” Dominic said suddenly, breaking a silence that had stretched for twenty miles. His eyes remained fixed on the road, his hands resting easily on the leather steering wheel.
I turned my head to look at him, my exhaustion giving way to a sudden flash of stubborn irritation. “You pulled me out of my pharmacy, dragged me into a vehicle with tinted windows, and brought me into a syndicate war zone. Telling me I shouldn't be here is a little late, don’t you think?”
“You had a choice,” he replied evenly. “When I handed you that box, you could have walked back into the pharmacy, locked the door, and pretended you never saw me.”
“And let my best friend get killed?” I snapped, my voice rising slightly. “Gemma has been the only person who has stood by me since we were six years old. When my mother walked out, when I had to work double shifts just to pay rent on that studio apartment, Gemma was the one who showed up with takeout and didn't ask questions. I don't abandon people just because things get dangerous.”
Dominic glanced at me sideways. In the dim amber glow of the dashboard lights, the hard lines of his face softened just a fraction.
“Loyalty is a rare currency in my world, Evelyn,” he murmured. “Most people are only loyal until the price gets too high. You haven't asked for a single guarantee since we left her apartment.”
“Because guarantees don’t exist in my life,” I said bitterly, looking back out the window. “My mother taught me that the moment you start expecting safety, someone pulls the rug out from under you. That’s why I don’t date. That’s why I don’t go to parties. I keep my head down and control what I can.”
“And yet,” Dominic said quietly, pulling the SUV smoothly into the shadowed alley behind a dilapidated brick building labeled Wabash Commercial Laundry, “here you are, stepping into the dark with a man everyone in Chicago warns their children about.”
The SUV slid to a stop beside a rusted metal loading dock. Two men in dark coats stepped out from the shadows of the brick wall, their hands resting discreetly inside their jackets. They nodded respectfully as Dominic cut the engine.
“Stay close to me,” Dominic instructed, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register that brooked no argument. “The Vances know we’re tracking them. This laundry hasn't cleaned a shirt in ten years, but it’s been processing Vance money and encrypted comms since the winter freeze.”
My throat felt dry, but I nodded, unbuckling my seatbelt and stepping out into the biting Chicago chill. The air smelled of damp concrete, ozone, and old iron.
Dominic led me past the armed guards and toward a heavy steel side door secured by an electronic keypad. He didn't hesitate; he punched in an eight-digit code with the casual familiarity of a man walking into his own kitchen. The heavy door clicked open with a pneumatic hiss.
Inside, the building was pitch black except for a thin strip of yellow light leaking from beneath a metal door at the end of a long, concrete hallway.
As we walked, the distant sound of muffled voices echoed through the ventilation shafts. Someone was arguing—a sharp, angry exchange punctuated by the heavy thud of a fist hitting a table.
I froze, grabbing instinctively at Dominic’s sleeve.
May you like
He stopped instantly, turning his head back to look at me. His large, warm hand came up to cover mine where it clutched his coat sleeve, his thumb brushing reassuringly over my knuckles. The gesture was so uncharacteristic, so intensely grounding, that my racing heart skipped a beat for an entirely different reason.
“I told you,” Dominic whispered, his face inches from mine in the dark corridor, his voice a low, steady anchor in the storm. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
