Chapter 3 - TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OF SEARCHING
The air in the grand ballroom felt as though it had been sucked out entirely.
Three hundred of Chicago’s wealthiest elites—bankers, politicians, real estate tycoons, and socialites—stood paralyzed, watching the interaction between the most feared man in the city and a plus-size event coordinator holding a thick binder.
Bianca Sutton stared in sheer horror, her mind racing to comprehend what was happening. Who is she? She’s just the help! Why is Dominic Moretti looking at her like that?
Dominic didn't break eye contact with Wren. He lowered the compass slowly, cradling it in both palms as if it were made of spun glass. He stepped away from the trash bin, walking across the polished marble floor directly toward her, parting the crowd of stunned guests like a ship cutting through water.
When he stopped in front of her, Wren had to look up. Standing close, she realized just how tall he was, and how heavy the shadows were behind his eyes.
“Four years ago,” Dominic repeated softly, the hardness in his face fracturing to reveal a deep, exhausting grief. “I spent twenty-seven years looking for him.”
Wren’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Looking for my grandfather? Why? He just ran a small clock repair shop in Bellweather. He fixed navigational instruments, pocket watches—”
“He did more than that,” Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping to a low murmur meant only for her. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing against the edge of the battered brass compass resting in his palm. “In 1999, when I was twelve years old and running for my life through the rail yards of northern Illinois with men hunting me after my father was killed, your grandfather pulled me out of a freezing boxcar. He hid me in the back of his repair shop for three weeks. He gave me food, a fake passport, and this exact compass.”
Wren gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“He never told me,” Wren whispered. “He... he never talked about his past work before he opened the shop in Bellweather. He just told me that a good compass always helps you find your way home when the world gets dark.”
Dominic closed his fist gently around the compass, holding it against his chest. For a moment, the untouchable mafia boss looked like a lost boy who had finally found the shore.
Then, his eyes hardened again. The grief vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating fury of a man whose debts were absolute.
He turned slowly on his heel, pivoting back toward the crowd of paralyzed guests. His gaze swept over the room until it landed squarely on Bianca Sutton, who was trembling so violently she had to grab onto Kevin’s arm for support.
“You,” Dominic said, his voice echoing off the Murano crystal chandeliers.
Bianca swallowed hard, her voice squeaking. “M-Mr. Moretti? I—I didn't know! If I had known that the trinket belonged to—to—”
“You didn't care who it belonged to,” Dominic cut across her, his tone dripping with lethal disgust. “You saw something worn, something old, something that didn't fit your sterile, polished definition of perfection, and you treated it like garbage. You threw away a piece of history. You threw away a man’s legacy.”
“Mr. Moretti, please!” Bianca stammered, tears springing to her eyes as the socialites around her slowly began to step away from her, creating a wide circle of isolation. “It was a mistake! A simple misunderstanding! We can donate to the foundation—we can write a check right now—”
“Your money is dirty, and your foundation dinner is a joke,” Dominic said flatly. He raised his hand, and two massive security guards in black suits stepped forward from the doors, flanking Bianca on either side.
“What are you doing?” Bianca shrieked, panic finally breaking through her composed veneer. “You can’t do this! I am the chairwoman of this committee! I run this society!”
“You were the chairwoman,” Dominic corrected coldly. He turned his attention back to Wren, and the terrifying chill in his expression melted into something shockingly gentle.
He gestured to the two guards holding Bianca. “Escort Miss Sutton and her assistant off the premises. Make sure her name is permanently barred from every charitable board, real estate venture, and social club in the tri-state area. If she breathes in Chicago without my permission, let me know.”
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“No! No, you can’t!” Bianca screamed as the guards lifted her by her arms, dragging her kicking and thrashing toward the mahogany double doors while the three hundred wealthiest people in Chicago watched in absolute, stunned silence.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind her, cutting off her cries.
