Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Syndicate
By Friday evening, the story of the clumsy nanny who had breached the Romano fortress had leaked into the whispered corridors of Chicago’s high-society and underworld circles alike.
In a private, dimly lit booth at The Blue Heron, an upscale members-only lounge overlooking the Chicago River, two men leaned over a table of scotch and smoked salmon, speaking in low, venomous tones.
“I’m telling you, Vance, the guy’s losing his edge,” snarled Marcus Moretti, a capo from the south-side faction who had been trying to muscle in on Dominic’s shipping lanes for three years. Moretti swirled his amber drink, his gold pinky ring catching the amber light. “He’s hiding out in that mausoleum on the North Shore playing house with some oversized nobody he hired off an employment agency.”
Vance, a middle-man fixer with slicked-back gray hair and a permanent scowl, took a slow drag from a cigarette. “Don't underestimate him, Marcus. Dominic didn't survive three assassination attempts by going soft. They say the kid spoke. First time in two years.”
“A kid babbling doesn't run a billion-dollar empire,” Moretti spat, stubbing out his cigar in a crystal tray. “And if Dominic is distracted by domestic bliss—if he’s spending his nights reading bedtime stories instead of checking port manifests—then the docks in South Chicago are ripe for the taking. Let’s test him. Let’s send a message to the North Shore estate. Remind him who still owns the night.”
“How?” Vance asked, narrowing his eyes. “Security up there is tighter than a federal penitentiary.”
“Not the front gates,” Moretti smiled, showing too many teeth. “We don't touch Dominic. We touch the things he brings inside his walls. Let’s see how long his new pet nanny lasts when things start getting... complicated.”
Back at the North Shore estate, things were complicated enough without South Side syndicates getting involved.
It was 9:00 PM, and the mansion was wrapped in a deep, peaceful quiet. Dominic sat at his massive mahogany desk in the ground-floor study, the glow of twin computer monitors illuminating pages of financial ledgers, encrypted shipping receipts, and intelligence reports regarding Moretti’s recent movements.
A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
“Enter,” Dominic said without looking up.
The door creaked open, and Beatrice slipped inside. She was wearing an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed her frame and a pair of fuzzy penguin pajama pants that fluttered around her ankles. Her hair was tied up in a messy topknot with a yellow pencil stabbed through it.
She looked entirely out of place in the grim, leather-and-steel fortress of his study.
“Mr. Romano,” she began, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “I know you’re working, and I shouldn't bother you this late, but... well, Leo won't go to sleep.”
Dominic’s head snapped up, his computer screens forgotten instantly. “Is he hurt?”
“No! No, he’s not hurt,” Beatrice hurried to reassure him, waving her hands. “Physically, he’s fine. But he’s having... well, he’s asking questions. And by asking questions, I mean he looked at the moon through the nursery window and asked if his mother was hiding behind it.”
Dominic stood up so fast his leather chair rolled back and slammed into the bookshelf. The cold, ruthless aura that defined him in the boardroom evaporated in a fraction of a second, leaving behind the raw, bleeding wound of a grieving father.
He walked past Beatrice without a word, his long strides eating up the hallway toward the grand staircase. Beatrice hurried to keep up, her penguin slippers making soft flap-flap noises against the polished wood.
When they reached the nursery, Leo was sitting upright in his toddler bed, clutching a stuffed gray wolf to his chest. His dark eyes were wide and hyper-vigilant.
Dominic walked to the side of the bed, kneeling down so his face was level with his son’s. The terrifying mob boss melted into a gentle giant, his massive hands resting softly on the mattress.
“Hey, buddy,” Dominic murmured, his voice rich and low. “Beatrice tells me you’re looking at the moon.”
Leo looked at his father, then shifted his gaze to Beatrice, who hovered nervously near the doorway.
“Is she going to leave?” Leo whispered.
The question hit Dominic like a physical blow. He glanced over his shoulder at Beatrice, his dark eyes searching hers with a desperate, unspoken plea.
Beatrice didn't hesitate. She crossed the room, her penguin slippers shuffling softly, and sat down on the edge of the rug right beside Dominic’s knee.
“I’m not going anywhere, Leo,” Beatrice said, her voice warm, steady, and entirely lacking in the brittle perfection of the women Dominic usually associated with his world. “Unless you fire me for burning the grilled cheese tomorrow morning. Which is a strong possibility, honestly. I have a troubled relationship with stovetops.”
A tiny, breathless puff of laughter escaped Leo’s nose.
He reached out a small hand, his fingers tangling into the fabric of Beatrice’s gray hoodie.
“Okay,” Leo whispered, his eyelids fluttering downward with sudden exhaustion. “Stay.”
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Dominic stared at his son’s hand gripping Beatrice’s sleeve. Then his dark eyes shifted upward, meeting Beatrice’s warm brown gaze across the dim nursery. In that quiet, charged space between them, surrounded by the ghosts of a violent past and the uncertainty of a dangerous future, Dominic felt something he hadn't felt since the day he lost his wife.
He felt the ice around his heart begin to crack.
