Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Inner Circle
An empire like mine doesn't run without enemies. In the shadows of the North Side, rival syndicates watched our every move like vultures circling a dying carcass. The O’Connor brothers—Sean and Liam—had been trying to muscle in on our dock operations down by the Chicago River for months, waiting for a sign of weakness, a crack in the granite facade of the Rossi name.
Three days after the incident with Tessa, I sat in the private back room of Luigi’s Trattoria, our unofficial headquarters, surrounded by my top capos. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the scent of Chianti.
“Word on the street is that Dominic Rossi is getting soft,” Vincent, my second-in-command, muttered as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. He eyed me cautiously across the mahogany table. “Word is you’re handing out real estate, paying off debt for random domestic staff, and enrolling neighborhood kids in elite private schools. Since when do we run a charity, Dominic?”
I didn't flinch. I slowly turned my glass of scotch between my fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the dim restaurant light. I raised my eyes, locking my gaze onto Vincent’s until he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“My business operations are none of your concern, Vincent,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the lethal chill that had kept me alive in this city for thirty years. “The docks are running on time. The tribute is paid every Monday. And my house runs the way I tell it to run. If anyone has a problem with how I spend my earnings, they are welcome to step outside and discuss it with me right now.”
Vincent swallowed hard, lowering his gaze. “Nobody’s questioning your leadership, Boss. We’re just saying... people are noticing. In our line of work, compassion gets exploited. If the O’Connors find out you’ve got a soft spot for a maid, they’ll look for ways to use her against you.”
That single sentence hung in the air like a poisoned dart.
My blood turned to ice. Vincent was right about one thing: the underworld had sharp eyes, and if Sean O'Connor discovered that Tessa Cole meant even a fraction of protection to me, she instantly became a prime target. In my world, caring about someone was painting a target on their back.
I stood up abruptly, knocking my napkin onto the table. “Double the security detail around 438 South 63rd Street starting tonight. I want two men in unmarked cars stationed at the end of her block around the clock. If anyone—and I mean anyone—so much as looks at that house sideways, you call me immediately.”
May you like
Vincent nodded quickly, realizing he had pushed too far. “It’ll be done, Boss. But what about Tessa? Sooner or later, she’s going to realize that paying off a twenty-thousand-dollar mortgage and erasing loanshark debt doesn't just happen by magic. People start asking questions.”
“Let her ask,” I said coldly, adjusting my cuffs. “I’ll handle it when the time comes.”
