Chapter 5 - A Target Painted on Curvy Hips
The retaliation didn't come in the boardroom. It came on the streets.
A week after the Symphony Ball, the riverfront development contract was officially awarded to Moretti Holdings. The city council voted unanimously in Dominic’s favor, shutting out Viktor Rossi’s front companies from the eighty-million-dollar logistics hub.
Claire had spent three straight days reviewing the maritime union compliance papers to ensure the bid was airtight. She was exhausted, running on black coffee and adrenaline, but the victory felt personal. For the first time in her life, her intellect and grit had driven a multi-million-dollar triumph.
It was 8:30 on a Thursday evening when Claire finally left the Marston Building. Dominic had been pulled into an emergency meeting in North Chicago, leaving Marco to escort her home.
The autumn wind whipped off Lake Michigan, swirling crisp leaves across the concrete as they reached the parking garage. Claire was halfway to Marco’s black SUV when she noticed the silence. The usual hum of the downtown parking facility was dead. No attendant. No headlights.
“Marco,” Claire said quietly, stopping in her tracks.
Marco’s entire posture shifted. His hand slid inside his overcoat, gripping the butt of his sidearm. “Stay behind me, Miss Bennett. Right now.”
Tires screeched on the level above. A dark gray Dodge Charger dropped down the concrete ramp at reckless speed, its headlights blinding them in the shadows. Before Marco could pull Claire behind a structural pillar, a second vehicle—a black commercial van—slid across the exit lane, pinning them between concrete and steel.
Four men in tactical balaclavas spilled from the van, carrying heavy iron batons and semi-automatic pistols.
“Get her in the van!” one shouted in a rough eastern-European accent. “Rossi wants the girl! Leave the driver!”
“Run, Claire!” Marco roared.
Marco pulled his weapon and fired two rapid, deafening shots that shattered the Charger’s windshield, sending the driver ducking. But there were too many of them. A baton struck Marco across the shoulder from behind, followed by a heavy tackle that drove the giant bodyguard to the asphalt.
Claire didn't scream.
Years of handling drunken, belligerent wedding guests and out-of-control convention crowds kicked into cold, survivalist instinct. Panic was a luxury she couldn't afford.
One of the masked men lunged toward her, gloved hands reaching for her hair. Claire gripped her heavy, steel-framed leather briefcase with both hands, pivoted on her sensible three-inch heels, and swung with the full rotational force of her broad hips.
The metal buckle of the briefcase slammed directly into the side of the man’s temple. The impact made a sickening crack. The attacker dropped like a sack of wet sand.
“Get the fat bitch!” another man snarled, rushing her with zip-ties in his hands.
Claire dodged sideways, utilizing her weight to shoulder-check the man against the concrete pillar. He grunted, winded by the collision. She brought her heel down violently onto his instep, grinding the hard rubber into his boot. He howled in agony.
Before she could break away toward the pedestrian stairwell, a third man struck her from behind. A heavy fist grazed her cheekbone, sending her spinning against the fender of a parked sedan. Stars exploded across her vision. Her purse spilled across the floor.
Rough hands seized her wrists, wrenching her arms behind her back with brutal, bruising force. A thick piece of industrial duct tape was slapped across her mouth before she could draw breath.
“Move!” the man holding her growled, dragging her toward the open sliding door of the van.
On the ground, Marco was bleeding from a head wound, struggling to raise his gun, his breath rattling in his chest. “Claire...!”
Claire thrashed violently, kicking backward with every ounce of strength she possessed, catching one man in the shin. But an arm wrapped around her throat in a sleeper hold, cutting off her oxygen. Darkness crept in at the edges of her sight.
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The last thing she saw before the metal doors slammed shut was Marco dragging himself toward his dropped phone, punching a single speed-dial button.
Dominic.
