Chapter 3 - The Tower on Michigan Avenue
The Moretti Tower rose forty-two stories above Michigan Avenue, a monolith of black glass and brushed steel that looked like it had been carved out of a midnight thunderstorm.
I didn't drive the rust-bucket sedan. I parked six blocks away, walked up the granite steps wearing a simple black turtleneck, charcoal slacks, and leather boots, and carried a heavy canvas duffel bag slung over my right shoulder.
The security guards at the front desk didn't blink when I walked in. Marcus, the heavy-set intelligence chief who had reviewed my background check yesterday, was waiting by the private elevators.
“Morning, Ms. Carter,” Marcus said, scanning my face with a biometric pad. The green light flashed. ACCESS GRANTED: LEVEL 4 - EXECUTIVE CORE.
“Marcus,” I nodded, falling into step beside him. “Is the clinic safe?”
“For now,” Marcus grunted as the elevator doors slid shut, rocketing us upward at stomach-churning speed. “Dominic dispatched a security detail to the Cicero medical center at midnight. Vance’s men tried to shut down the water filtration units for the dialysis ward at 3:00 AM. Our guys broke their collarbones and sent them packing.”
“Good.”
“Don't get comfortable,” Marcus warned, side-eyeing me. “Dominic is playing a dangerous game bringing you into the inner circle. The capos think you’re a liability. Arthur Vance thinks you’re a peasant he can squash. And Vanessa... well, Vanessa is currently packing her bags after Dominic officially called off the wedding at dawn.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He called off the wedding because of a cake?”
“He called off the wedding because his fiancée tried to ruin a strategic asset,” Marcus corrected dryly. “And because Dominic Moretti doesn't like being played by the Vance family.”
The elevator pinged. Floor forty-two.
The doors opened into a sprawling, minimalist penthouse office surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a gray, churning Lake Michigan. Dominic Moretti stood by the edge of the glass, looking out over the city in a tailored navy suit, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal thick, corded forearms.
He turned as I stepped out of the elevator.
“You’re on time,” Dominic observed, walking over.
“I’m always on time,” I said, dropping my duffel bag onto the polished concrete floor with a heavy thud. “You said you wanted a partner. Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Moretti: I’m not your bodyguard, I’m not your secretary, and I’m definitely not your pet project. I’m here because Arthur Vance killed my father, and you want to tear down his empire. We have a mutual enemy.”
Dominic stopped two feet away. Up close, his eyes were a piercing, stormy gray, framed by faint laugh lines that belied the ruthless reputation he carried. A slow, dangerous smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“Fair enough,” Dominic said. “Let’s see if you can back up the talk.”
He pointed toward a reinforced training ring set up in the far corner of the penthouse, surrounded by heavy bags, speed balls, and a rack of striking pads.
“Put on the wraps,” Dominic ordered.
I didn't hesitate. I unzipped my duffel bag, pulled out my old cotton hand-wraps—frayed at the edges, stained with old sweat—and began wrapping my knuckles with tight, mechanical precision.
Marcus leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Boss, are you sure about this? She hasn't fought in a decade.”
“Let’s find out,” Dominic murmured, stepping into the ring and shrugging off his suit jacket. He tossed his tie onto a stool and rolled his neck, his shoulders broadening. “If she’s going to sit at my table, she needs to know how to take a hit from someone bigger than a hysterical debutante.”
I stepped through the ropes, the canvas familiar beneath the rubber soles of my boots. I bounced on my toes twice, feeling the old rhythm waking up in my joints—the shift of weight, the pivot of the hip, the sudden, electric snap of muscle memory.
“Don't hold back because I’m wearing a dress shirt, Mr. Moretti,” I said coldly.
Dominic chuckled, raising his hands into a classic orthodox guard. “I never hold back, Avery.”
He lunged forward with a swift, probing jab.
I slipped to the outside, parried the punch with my forearm, and fired a vicious right hook straight into his ribs.
Smack.
Dominic grunted, stumbling half a step to the side as the impact rattled his guard. He blinked in surprise, then grinned.
May you like
“Oh,” Dominic breathed, adjusting his stance. “So the delivery girl knows how to throw.”
“I told you,” I whispered, dropping back into my stance as the adrenaline flooded my veins. “I’m not a delivery girl.”
