I Called A Ruthless Billionaire Street Trash After He Splashed Me—The Next Night He Bought My Entire Workplace Just To Claim Me

The sharp crack of shattering glass obliterated the quiet of the car as a high-caliber round slammed into the reinforced rear window, webbing the armored glass into a dense network of fractures without penetrating it.

I dropped to the floorboard between the leather seats, curling my hands over the back of my neck. My breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. The scent of ozone, burning rubber, and raw terror filled my lungs.

"Hold steady, Marco," Dominic said, his tone entirely devoid of panic. He didn't duck. He didn't raise his voice. He rolled the passenger window down exactly three inches, braced his forearm against the door frame, and fired two precise shots backward into the dark.

A loud squeal of tearing metal echoed across the wet highway, followed by the violent crash of tires losing purchase on wet asphalt. The pursuing sedan spun out, careening into a concrete highway barrier in a shower of sparks and shredded fiberglass.

Dominic rolled the window back up, checked the chamber of his weapon, and clicked the safety back into place. He looked down at me on the floorboard.

"You can sit up now," he said.

I climbed back onto the seat, my knees trembling so violently they knocked against each other. "You shot out their tires!"

"I shot their radiator and the driver's front wheel," he corrected calmly. "They will survive. But their boss will know that following my vehicle into the Gold Coast is an expensive tactical failure."

He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief, and handed it to me. I looked down and realized my cheek had been grazed by a fleck of broken glass from the outer pane. Blood was trickling down my jawline.

I took the handkerchief and pressed it against my skin. It smelled faintly of sandalwood.

"Why are they coming after you now?" I demanded, refusing to let the trembling in my voice overpower the anger. "If you run this city, why are people shooting at your car?"

"Power is not a static condition, Nadia," Dominic said, looking out at the glittering Chicago skyline as the car ascended the ramp toward Lake Shore Drive. "It is an ongoing negotiation. My uncle ran the syndicate with bribes and quiet agreements for thirty years. When he passed away six months ago, the younger factions—led by Antonio Lucenti—decided that violence was more profitable than diplomacy. They want to turn this city into a battleground for narcotics and unregulated extortion."

"And what are you? The good guy?" I scoffed through the pain in my cheek.

Dominic let out a low, dry chuckle that held zero humor. "There are no good guys on this side of the river. But I keep the peace. I keep their filth away from schools, residential neighborhoods, and small businesses. If Lucenti takes the district, your mother’s apartment building will be an open-air drug market within forty-eight hours."

The car turned into the private underground parking facility of a towering glass high-rise on Michigan Avenue. The heavy security gates slid shut behind us with an ominous finality. Marco cut the engine, stepped out, and opened the rear door.

Dominic stepped out first, offering his hand to help me down. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before slapping his hand aside and stepping out under my own power.