Chapter 2 - The Seller In The Shadows
Nora stared at the dark screen of Dominic’s phone, feeling a cold knot twist in her stomach. ""What are you talking about? I live in a fourth-floor walk-up in Lincoln Park. My door lock was jimmied with a crowbar. They took my laptop, eighty dollars from a jar, and my jewelry.""
""And they kept this specific music box separate,"" Dominic countered, crossing the foyer toward a set of towering double doors that led into his private study. He gestured for her to follow. ""Come out of the hallway. If you stand in front of those windows long enough, my perimeter guards will assume you're an operational threat.""
Nora hesitated, clutching the brass carousel like a shield, but the cold certainty in his eyes left no room for debate. She followed him into the study, a massive room paneled in dark walnut, smelling richly of aged bourbon, old parchment, and cedarwood. A colossal stone fireplace crackled with roaring birch logs.
Frank returned a minute later, carrying the crumpled brown wrapping paper in a transparent plastic evidence bag. He placed it carefully on Dominic’s massive desk without a word, giving Nora a curt, polite nod before stepping backward into the shadows near the doorway.
""Look at the postage code,"" Dominic instructed, pointing a manicured finger at the corner of the label.
Nora leaned over the mahogany desk, her strawberry-scented shampoo briefly mingling with the heady scent of his cologne. ""It says West Loop. District 12.""
""District 12 is controlled by the Valenti family,"" Dominic stated, leaning back against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His tailored white dress shirt strained against muscular shoulders that carried the physical weight of Chicago's brutal underworld. ""Three weeks ago, Vincent Valenti lost a lucrative shipping contract along the riverfront to my transport firm. He has been looking for leverage, cracks in my foundation, soft targets associated with my staff.""
Nora frowned deeply, shaking her head. ""I don't know any Valentis. I work thirty hours a week as a crossing guard and twenty-five hours at Miller's Bakery kneading dough before sunrise. I don't belong to your world, Mr. Moretti.""
""No, but Tony does,"" Dominic murmured, his dark brown eyes fixing onto hers with terrifying intensity. ""Tony walks across your street five mornings a week. He talks to you. He accepts peppermint sticks from your coat pockets. Vincent’s runners surveil that school looking for patterns in my security detail. If someone saw Tony talking to you, took note of your apartment, and engineered this break-in—""
""Wait,"" Nora gasped, backing away until the edge of a leather armchair caught the back of her knees. ""Are you saying someone robbed my home just to get to a nine-year-old boy?""
""I am saying criminals are remarkably opportunistic,"" Dominic corrected, picking up the plastic bag containing the packaging. ""The seller account Tony bought this from wasn't an anonymous auction handle. It was registered under a dummy corporation named 'Little Sparrow Imports.' That is an old Valenti shell company. They wanted someone close to my household to buy this box.""
""Why?"" Nora whispered, her voice trembling. ""What could an antique carousel possibly do?""
Dominic reached out, taking the carousel from her trembling hands. His fingers brushed against hers, warm and deliberate. He flipped the heavy brass base upside down, examining the worn felt pad on the bottom. ""Frank. Hand me the pocket knife.""
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Frank tossed a sleek silver pocketknife across the desk. With practiced, effortless precision, Dominic slid the thin blade beneath the faded green felt lining the brass foundation. Nora gasped as the felt peeled away cleanly, revealing a hollowed-out cavity carved into the lead counterweight.
Tucked tightly inside the small void was a micro-transponder, no larger than a button, its tiny red diode blinking in steady, silent rhythm.
