Chapter 9 - Shadows of the Past
That evening, the storm clouds that had hovered over Chicago all day finally broke into a violent autumn downpour. Rain lashed against the reinforced glass windows of the Bellardi penthouse, turning the city skyline into a blurry watercolor of neon and slate.
Vivian stood in the private study on the top floor, staring down at a printed copy of the restructured foundation charter. Her name was at the top—The Bellardi-Blake Trust, Founder and Executive Director.
A soft knock sounded at the open door.
Dominic walked in, carrying two crystal glasses of amber bourbon. He set one down on the desk beside her and leaned against the edge, his dark eyes studying her profile.
“You terrified Marcus today,” Dominic noted, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. “The man has handled cartel financing for twenty years, and you made him look like a schoolboy caught cheating on a math test.”
“Marcus was skimming three percent off every real estate acquisition in the West Loop,” Vivian said without looking up, taking a small sip of the bourbon. It burned pleasantly down her throat. “If we’re going to clean up Chicago, we have to start by sweeping our own floors.”
“And you’re enjoying it,” Dominic observed softly.
Vivian finally turned her head, looking up at him. The amber light from the desk lamp caught the silver streaks at his temples and the jagged scar across his eyebrow. “I spent three years playing the polite, quiet fiancée to a man who was selling me out behind my back. I spent my entire life believing that if I just smiled enough, worked hard enough, and stayed quiet enough, people would treat me right. I’m done being quiet, Dominic.”
Dominic reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently cupping her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.
“Good,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made her pulse skip a beat. “Because quiet women don’t survive in my world. And they certainly don't command my respect.”
Before Vivian could reply, her private cell phone—the new, encrypted device Dominic’s tech team had set up for her—vibrated sharply against the mahogany desk.
She glanced down at the screen.
An unknown number, routed through a local holding facility.
She pressed speakerphone.
“Vivian?” a voice cracked through the small speaker—thin, desperate, and trembling with barely contained hysteria. “Vivian, please... you have to help me.”
Maribel.
Vivian’s expression froze, the warmth of the room instantly turning to ice. She looked up at Dominic, who simply crossed his arms, watching her with unreadable, obsidian eyes.
“Maribel,” Vivian said, her voice entirely devoid of emotion. “How did you get this number?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Maribel sobbed through the phone line. “Nathan... Nathan lied to me about everything! The federal marshals arrested him yesterday morning for conspiracy and wire fraud, and his family’s legal team dropped me like a piece of trash! They’re saying I was an active conspirator because my name was on the apartment lease! Vivian, they’re going to indict me—I could face ten years in federal prison! You have connections now—you’re living with Dominic Bellardi! Please, beg him to help us!”
Vivian listened to her sister’s desperate pleas, remembering the service corridor at the Sterling Hotel—remembering the sound of Maribel’s laughter, the sight of Nathan’s hands in her hair, and the cruel, smug satisfaction her sister had worn when she thought Vivian was safely out of the picture.
“When I stood in that ballroom, Maribel,” Vivian said, her voice steady and razor-sharp, “you watched me lose my entire life with a smile on your face. You thought you won.”
“I was stupid!” Maribel wailed. “I was blind! Please, Gracie—please!”
“My name is Vivian,” she corrected coldly. “And as for your legal trouble? Call Nathan’s defense attorney. Oh, that’s right—you can’t. He blocked your number too.”
Vivian reached out and pressed End Call.
The silence that followed in the penthouse study was absolute, save for the steady beating of the rain against the glass.
Dominic stepped closer, his hand sliding from her chin down to rest gently on her shoulder. “Regrets?”
May you like
Vivian turned off the screen of the burner phone, tossing it casually into the desk drawer and closing it with a firm click.
“None,” she said, looking up into Dominic’s dark, unwavering eyes. “Some accounts can’t be balanced, Dominic. Some debts just have to be written off.”
