Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Ex-Boyfriends Past
Carmine’s on Rush Street was an institution of old-money mahogany, white linen tablecloths, and waiters who had served three generations of Chicago’s ruling elite. The moment Dominic entered with Rosa on his arm and Claire walking alongside them, the room went conspicuously quiet.
Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the banquettes.
Claire was acutely aware of how they looked together. Dominic was a titan in dark charcoal; Rosa was draped in emerald silk and diamonds; and Claire was a woman of undeniable, voluptuous size, holding her head high while feeling the collective gaze of Chicago society dissecting her presence.
They were seated at the premier center booth—Dominic’s personal table.
“Eat the pappardelle, Claire,” Rosa commanded, snapping her napkin open. “You need real starch. These modern girls live on cold grass and vinegar. They look like praying mantises with handbags.”
Claire chuckled, settling into the leather seat. “I’ve never turned down pasta in my life, Mrs. Moretti.”
“Good. A woman without an appetite is a woman without passion. Dominic, order the Barolo.”
As the wine was being poured, Claire heard a voice that made the blood freeze in her veins.
“Claire? Good God, is that actually you?”
She looked up. Standing near the aisle, holding a glass of dry martini, was Ryan Keller.
Ryan was as polished and hollow as a newly waxed floor. Blonde hair swept back with pomade, wearing an athletic-cut designer suit, he was accompanied by a lithe, stick-thin woman in a beige sheath dress whose diamond tennis bracelet was loose enough to slide halfway down her forearm.
Ryan had spent four years breaking Claire down. He had hidden her from his country club friends, made casual jokes about her plate at holiday dinners, and finally broken their engagement by telling her he couldn't marry someone who had let herself go.
“Ryan,” Claire said, her voice dropping into the cool, neutral register she used for unruly banquet guests.
Ryan smirked, his eyes sweeping over her form with that familiar mixture of pity and patronizing superiority. “Look at you. Still in town. I heard you got let go from the boutique chain. Tough break, Claire. I told you that management requires a certain... public image.” He glanced at Dominic and Rosa, clearly failing to recognize the man whose name was rarely printed alongside his face in mainstream media. “Are you doing event catering for private families now?”
Claire felt a hot knot of humiliation rise in her throat. The years of conditioning, the endless diet logs, the quiet tears in dressing rooms—it all surged forward in a fraction of a second.
Before Claire could speak, Dominic set his wine glass down onto the white linen. The click was sharp and absolute.
Dominic didn't stand. He simply turned his head, fixing Ryan with a stare so glacial, so devoid of human mercy, that Ryan’s smug grin evaporated on the spot.
“Who allowed you to speak at this table?” Dominic asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it had the density of lead.
Ryan blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me? I was talking to my ex-fiancée. We were catching up.”
“You are breathing the air around my table,” Dominic said quietly, “and your presence is displeasing to the women in my family. Walk away.”
Ryan bristled, puffed up by the two drinks in his system and the presence of his new girlfriend. “Do you have any idea who I am? I’m senior vice president at Sterling Capital—”
Marco appeared out of nowhere. The mountain of a man placed one heavy, scarred hand onto Ryan’s shoulder. The grip was so firm that Ryan’s knees visibly buckled, his cocktail sloshing over the brim onto his designer sleeve.
“You’re talking to Dominic Moretti, friend,” Marco whispered pleasantly into Ryan’s ear. “And if you say one more word to Miss Bennett, I’m going to fold you into a shape that won't fit into your Porsche.”
Ryan’s face drained of every drop of color. His jaw dropped. The woman beside him gasped, retreating two steps back toward the bar.
“M-Mr. Moretti,” Ryan stammered, his bravado instantly shattering into pathetic terror. “I... I didn't realize. Claire, I was just—”
“You were leaving,” Claire interrupted, her voice entirely steady now. She looked at Ryan, not with the pain she had carried for two years, but with pure, unadulterated clarity. He wasn't a conqueror; he was an insecure little boy playing dress-up. “Goodbye, Ryan. Enjoy your salad.”
Marco guided Ryan away with gentle, irresistible force.
At the table, Rosa patted Claire’s hand. “He has weak teeth, darling. You can tell by the chin. A man with a chin like that would cry during an audit.”
Claire laughed, though her hands were trembling slightly beneath the table.
Across the linen, Dominic watched her. When Rosa turned to wave at the sommelier, Dominic reached across the table and covered Claire’s shaking hand with his own. His palm was warm, solid, and undeniably protective.
“You’re ten times the woman he ever deserved,” Dominic said, his gaze locked onto hers with startling intensity. “Don't ever lower your head in front of trash like that again, Claire. Not while you carry my name on your paychecks.”
May you like
Claire swallowed, feeling a dangerous flutter deep in her chest. “Thank you, Dominic.”
It was the first time she had used his first name. He didn't correct her. Instead, his fingers tightened around hers before slowly releasing them, leaving her skin tingling where he had touched.
