Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Past
Three days in the penthouse felt like three years in a high-security prison.
Dawson tested me constantly. He skipped breakfast, tried to sneak out through the service elevator to hit underground gambling dens, and threw a ceramic vase across the living room just to see if I would blink.
I didn't blink. I simply handed him a broom, told him to clean it up, and reminded him of his father’s ledger.
It worked—mostly.
But on the fourth night, the past came knocking at our reinforced steel front door.
We were in the sprawling, minimalist kitchen. I was making scrambled eggs and black coffee—Dawson’s mandated hangover cure—when a heavy, rhythmic pounding echoed through the penthouse foyer.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Dawson paused mid-sip of his water, his eyes narrowing. “Expecting company?”
“No,” I said, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
The pounding came again, louder this time, accompanied by the muffled sound of voices demanding entry.
Before I could move toward the foyer, Dawson set his glass down with a sharp clink, his expression shifting from bored apathy into cold, lethal focus. He didn't say a word. He just strode out of the kitchen, his broad shoulders squaring as he pulled a heavy, matte-black Glock from the waistband of his trousers with practiced, casual ease.
“Wait—” I started, following him into the foyer.
Dawson didn't wait. He threw the heavy oak double doors wide open.
Standing in the hallway were two men built like brick walls, wearing cheap leather jackets and sneering expressions. One of them had a jagged scar running from his lip to his jaw.
“Vince?” the scarred man barked, stepping forward. “We’re here for the Miller collection. Old man Miller missed his weekly vig, and since he’s hiding out, we figured we’d collect from his daughter’s fancy new employer—holy shit.”
The man stopped dead in his tracks as he looked past Dawson and saw me standing in the doorway in my oversized sweater and leggings.
Then his eyes drifted up to Dawson Moretti.
The air in the hallway instantly dropped twenty degrees. The color drained from the collector’s face so fast it looked like someone had pulled a plug in his veins.
“D-Dawson?” the man stammered, taking an involuntary step backward. “We didn't... we didn't know this was your building—”
Dawson didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He raised the barrel of the Glock until it was resting lightly against the bridge of the scarred man’s nose.
“You’re standing at my front door,” Dawson said, his voice a smooth, deadly purr. “You’re terrifying my employee. And you’re tracking mud onto my imported Italian marble.”
“Mr. Moretti, please, we were just—we’re collecting for the northern docks—”
“The northern docks answer to my father,” Dawson interrupted, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. “And my father answers to me when I’m in this city. You touch Arthur Miller, you touch his debt, or you come within five miles of this building again, and I won’t just break your knees. I’ll feed you to the fish in Lake Michigan before breakfast.”
The two enforcers looked at each other, sheer terror in their eyes, before turning and bolting down the hallway toward the service stairs so fast they nearly tripped over each other.
Dawson slowly lowered the gun, sliding it back into his waistband. He didn't look back at me immediately. He stood in the open doorway for a moment, breathing out a slow, controlled breath.
“You didn't have to do that,” I said softly from behind him.
May you like
Dawson turned his head, looking over his shoulder at me with an unreadable expression in his stormy eyes. “Your father’s debt is tied to my family’s ledger, Clara. Which means until that contract expires, your problems are my problems. And nobody threatens people in my house.”
My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear. For the first time, behind the jagged edges of Chicago’s most feared mafia heir, I caught a glimpse of something dangerously human.
