Chapter 3 - The Offer on Park AvenueBy sunrise, the note burned a hole in the pocket of my scrub uniform.
I hadn't slept a wink. After dropping Lily off at Mrs. Delaney’s apartment with strict instructions not to open the door for anyone, I had spent the remainder of my shift looking over my shoulder, jumping at every slamming door and flashing siren.
Julian was alive. He knew I had crossed paths with Dominic Moretti. And worse—he was threatening Lily.
When my shift ended at 7:00 AM, a sleek black town car was idling curbside outside St. Catherine’s main entrance. The rear window rolled down smoothly, revealing the sharp, tailored silhouette of Dominic’s personal driver, a burly man in a gray suit whom Lily had affectionately called "Uncle Bear" during our brief taxi ride home the night before.
“Ms. Evans,” the driver said, his voice deep and gravelly. “Mr. Moretti requests your presence. It’s about your husband.”
Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, to go back inside the hospital, to hide under a rock. But the memory of the note pinned to the hospital wall—the threat against my daughter—pushed all my fear aside and replaced it with a mother’s cold, unyielding rage.
If Julian wanted to play games, he picked the wrong woman. And if Dominic Moretti was my only shield, I would walk right into the lion’s den.
“Let’s go,” I said, opening the door and sliding into the plush leather interior.
Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up in front of an imposing limestone mansion nestled on a quiet, tree-lined street on the Upper East Side. This wasn't a mob hangout straight out of a movie; it looked like a museum of fine art and understated wealth.
Inside, the foyer was vaulted and bright, lined with marble pillars and expensive oil paintings. Dominic was waiting for me in a sprawling study lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He stood by a large window holding a cup of espresso, wearing a charcoal vest over a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms.
He turned as the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me.
“You look like you haven't slept, Harper,” Dominic said, his voice carrying genuine concern beneath its usual guarded composure. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked over to a small silver tray and poured a fresh cup of coffee, holding it out to me.
Instead of taking the cup, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the crumpled note, and tossed it onto his polished mahogany desk.
Dominic’s eyes dropped to the paper. His expression didn't change, but the air in the room instantly grew heavy, thick with a dark, suffocating pressure. He picked up the note, reading the jagged handwriting once, twice.
“He was at the hospital last night,” I said, my voice shaking with suppressed fury. “He watched me. And he left this.”
Dominic slowly lowered the paper, his dark eyes meeting mine. “So, Julian is feeling cornered. Good. That means he’s making mistakes.”
“Mistakes? Dominic, he threatened my daughter!” I stepped closer to the desk, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “I don't care about your mafia wars or whatever money he stole from you. I care about Lily! If anything happens to her—!”
“Nothing will happen to Lily,” Dominic interrupted, his voice cutting through my panic with absolute, unshakeable finality. He didn't yell; he didn't blink. He simply stepped around the desk, closing the distance between us until I could feel the clean, wood-smoke scent of his cologne. “I gave my word to her yesterday when she shared her hot chocolate with me. Nobody touches that little girl.”
I stared up at him, breathless. There was something terrifyingly powerful about the way he spoke—not as an empty promise, but as an immutable law of nature.
“What do you want from me, Dominic?” I whispered, my voice softening. “Why are you doing this?”
Dominic was silent for a long moment. He looked down at me, his gaze softening in a way that defied everything I had ever heard about the ruthless men who ran the Manhattan underworld.
“Three years ago, Julian Vance embezzled four million dollars from an infrastructure fund I was using to rebuild community centers in Queens,” Dominic said quietly, his voice dangerously smooth. “He thought he could skip town and hide behind a fake accident. But what he didn't know was that I didn't just want my money back. I wanted justice for the people he screwed over.”
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He reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing against my bruised wrist where I had gripped the metal stretcher too hard during the trauma rush.
“And now,” Dominic continued, his eyes locking onto mine, “he’s threatened the only person in this city who managed to make me smile over a cup of cold coffee. Help me draw him out, Harper. Help me trap him. And I swear to you, when this is over, you and Lily will never have to look over your shoulders again.”
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