Chapter 4 - The Ghost from the Past
The apartment was freezing.
The single radiator beneath the street-facing window clanked and hissed, but when Dominic touched it with the back of his hand, the iron was barely lukewarm. A thin draft cut through the sashes, fluttering the floral curtains Clara had clearly sewn herself from cheap scrap fabric.
Dominic carried Lily into the adjoining room—a tiny space barely large enough for a twin mattress pushed against the wall. The bed was piled with five layers of mismatched blankets, and a small space heater sat on a crate nearby, its orange coils glowing dimly, struggling against the pervasive chill.
He laid Lily down, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Barnaby was tucked beside her cheek. The little girl groaned softly, turned onto her side, and sank deeper into the warmth, exhausted from her secret pilgrimage across the boroughs.
Dominic walked back into the living room.
Clara was leaning against the small kitchen counter, her arms wrapped tightly around her ribs as if trying to keep her chest from splitting open. On the floor by her bare feet were the shards of a cheap ceramic mug. Instant coffee had pooled into the cracked linoleum.
“How did you find me?” she choked out. Her knuckles were white against her sleeves. “Did Hayes call you? Did he tell you I was stealing? I didn't steal anything, Dominic! I just took two expired sandwiches from the breakroom fridge because Lily didn't have lunch for school—”
“Clara. Stop.”
His voice wasn't loud, but the command in it cut through her panic like a butcher’s knife.
Dominic stepped forward. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she flinched, shrinking back against the chipped laminate of the counter. The movement was instinctive, born of seven years of living like a hunted animal.
The flinch hurt Dominic worse than any bullet he had ever taken.
“I didn't track you through Hayes,” Dominic said softly, letting his hands fall back to his sides. “Lily came to my office.”
Clara’s eyes widened in sheer terror. “Lily? How—she was at Mrs. Higgins’ apartment downstairs! She was supposed to be doing her homework—”
“She took two trains,” Dominic said. “She had your termination letter in her coat pocket. She stood in the lobby of Moretti Plaza for two hours in yellow rain boots, waiting for the man whose name was on the building.”
Clara’s knees gave out.
She didn't collapse entirely; she slid down the front of the cabinets, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, violent weeping. Dominic was on his knees before she hit the floor. He didn't ask for permission this time. He pulled her against his chest, wrapping his heavy arms around her shaking frame.
She fought him for three seconds—pushing against his shoulders with fists that lacked any real strength—before she broke completely. Her fingers clawed into the wool of his suit jacket, and she wept against his neck, seven years of terror, loneliness, and crushing poverty pouring out in hot tears that soaked through his collar.
“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed into his skin. “I saw your ring, Nico. Your uncle came to the cabin with four men. They shot the dogs. They had blood on their cuffs. He threw your signet ring on the table and told me you had twenty minutes left in the ICU before they pulled the plugs. He said if I didn't take the money and disappear, they would cut the baby out of me.”
Dominic’s vision went red. A dark, vibrating hum filled his ears—the sound of his own blood pressure skyrocketing to lethal levels.
*Salvatore.*
Even from the grave, the old bastard was still poisoning his world.
“There was no money,” Clara whispered, her voice hitching. “He threw an envelope at me, but when I opened it at the bus station, it was just cut newspaper. I had forty dollars in my purse and three months of pregnancy. I couldn't go home. I couldn't call the police—you always told me the police belonged to your family. I thought... I thought every man in a black coat was coming to finish what Salvatore started.”
Dominic pulled her tighter, his cheek resting against her tangled hair. “I lived, Clara. I woke up three weeks later. Salvatore told me you took a million dollars and sold our location to the Genovese family. He showed me forged bank transfers. He burned your things.”
Clara pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face searching his. “You believed him?”
The question was a bullet.
Dominic looked into the eyes he had seen in his dreams for two thousand nights. “I was sick. I was full of painkillers and rage. But deep down... no. I never believed you stopped loving me. I thought you ran because you were terrified of what I was. And I didn't blame you.”
Clara wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, her breath shuddering. “I worked under my mother’s maiden name. Carter. I took night cleaning shifts. I washed dishes at a diner in Queens. Six months ago, an agency placed me at the logistics depot. When I saw the name *Moretti* on the delivery trucks, I almost had a heart attack. I wanted to quit. But they offered twelve dollars an hour and medical insurance. Lily needed dental work. I didn't think... I didn't think you would ever know a night-shift cleaner existed in a Queens warehouse.”
“And Hayes?” Dominic’s voice turned deadly quiet. “Why did he fire you?”
Clara looked down at her hands, her fingers scarred from commercial bleach and rough scrub brushes. “Last Thursday, I was cleaning the administrative offices on the second floor. It was two in the morning. Mr. Hayes was in his office with two men I had never seen before. They were loading wooden crates from the secure storage bay into an unmarked van. One of the crates cracked open on the forklift. It wasn't machine parts, Dominic.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “What was it?”
“Guns,” Clara whispered. “Black rifles in grease paper. Mr. Hayes saw me looking through the window. He didn't say anything that night. But the next morning, my security badge was deactivated. When I went to Human Resources, the letter was already printed. He said if I complained to the union or went to corporate, he would have me arrested for grand larceny. He said he had security footage of me taking company tools.”
A terrifying, razor-thin smile spread across Dominic’s lips. It wasn't an expression of joy; it was the face of an executioner who had just been handed the axe.
“Hayes is stealing from my own terminals,” Dominic said softly. “Selling black-market shipments through my logistics licenses, and framing my cleaners to cover his tracks.”
Clara looked at him, the old fear flickering back in her eyes. “Nico... what are you going to do to him?”
Dominic didn't answer. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray tear from her cheekbone. His touch lingered, his fingers tracing the soft curve of her jaw, remembering every line of her.
“Clara,” Dominic asked, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel. “Lily told me her father was lost at sea.”
Clara’s breath caught in her throat.
“She has my mother’s eyes,” Dominic said, leaning closer until their foreheads almost touched. “She has my family’s blood. Say it to me, Clara. Tell me the truth.”
Clara closed her eyes, a fresh tear spilling over her lashes.
May you like
“She was born on a Tuesday,” Clara whispered. “Seven pounds, four ounces. I named her Lily because you bought me white lilies on the night we met in Soho. She’s yours, Dominic. She has always been yours.”
***
