Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the DocksWithin an hour of Dante’s departure, West End General had undergone a silent, terrifying transformation.
The public security guards at the front desk were quietly replaced by four men in identical black suits wearing discreet earpieces. The nurses on my floor were polite, professional, and replaced by private trauma specialists dispatched directly from the Moretti family’s private medical network. No reporters. No stray visitors. Just an impenetrable ring of iron security sealing me off from the rest of Chicago.
I lay awake in the adjustable bed, staring at the white ceiling tiles, my mind spinning through the wreckage of my life.
For three years, I had been Dante Moretti’s chief executive assistant. To the outside world, I was just a diligent corporate secretary managing the calendar of a ruthless billionaire real estate mogul. But behind closed doors, I was the keeper of his darkest secrets, the organizer of his offshore accounts, and the only person in the city who could tell Dante no and live to tell the tale.
We had an unspoken agreement: he protected me from the violent underworld he ruled, and I kept his legitimate empire running like clockwork.
So why had someone broken that unwritten rule? Who dared target Dante’s inner circle to send a message about "the docks"?
The door clicked open again, but it wasn't a nurse.
A tall, impeccably dressed woman with sharp cheekbones, platinum-blonde hair tied in a flawless chignon, and ice-blue eyes strode into the room. It was Elena Vance—Dante’s ruthless general counsel and the most feared corporate litigator in Illinois.
She stopped beside my bed, looking down at my bruised face with a mixture of professional assessment and grim sympathy.
“Well, Harper,” Elena said, pulling up a chair and sitting down with calculated elegance. “You certainly know how to ruin a Thursday morning.”
“Good morning to you too, Elena,” I replied dryly, wincing as I shifted my weight. “Did Dante send you to check if I’m still breathing?”
“Dante is currently dismantling the entire South Side shipping syndicate block by block,” Elena said smoothly, opening a leather folio. “Which is why I’m here. He gave me strict instructions to secure a signed deposition from you regarding every single detail of last night’s attack before the police department botches the investigation.”
I stared at her. “The police haven't even interviewed me yet.”
“And they won't,” Elena smiled, a thin, razor-sharp expression. “Our legal team has already placed West End General under a federal jurisdictional waiver. The local PD doesn't have clearance to step foot on this floor.”
I let out a slow, painful sigh. “The men who attacked me... they mentioned the docks. They said an old ghost had returned.”
Elena’s pen froze against her notepad. For a fraction of a second, the cool, untouchable mask slipped from her face, replaced by a flash of genuine shock.
“Did they say a name?” Elena asked, leaning forward.
“No. Just that the debt from the docks had come due.”
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Elena closed her folio with a sharp snap. She stood up, smoothing down the front of her designer blazer.
“Stay in bed, Harper. Don't talk to anyone, don't answer any phone calls, and for God’s sake, don't try to look at your laptop,” Elena commanded, her voice dropping into a stern warning. “Because if what you’re telling me is true, last night wasn't just a random street mugging. It was a declaration of war. And Dante is about to burn half the city to the ground to find out who lit the match.”
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