Chapter 5 - SHIPPING LANES AND SECRETS
The black SUV roared through the midnight streets of Chicago, bypassing the city center and heading straight toward the sprawling industrial expanse of the South Side docks. The air smelled heavily of brine, rusted metal, and old engine oil.
“Prove something to me?” Dominic repeated my earlier words, his voice dangerously low as the vehicle slowed near a cluster of rusted corrugated warehouses.
“Gemma spent years living in your shadow,” I explained, my heart hammering against my ribs as I watched giant cargo cranes loom like prehistoric skeletons against the gray sky. “Everyone treated her like a porcelain doll you had to protect. She hated it. She wanted to prove she was smart enough, tough enough to handle your world.”
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He cut the engine, the sudden silence inside the car broken only by the distant crashing of waves against the concrete pier.
“She was my sister,” he said finally, his jaw tight. “It was my job to keep her safe from the monsters I had to become.”
“Protecting people often turns into caging them,” I replied softly, staring down at the silver ring in my palm. “Maybe she didn't want a cage anymore.”
Dominic reached across the center console, his large, warm fingers gently brushing against my hand. The simple contact sent a sudden, unexpected jolt straight up my arm, making my breath hitch in my throat. He didn't pull away, his thumb lingering over my knuckles.
“You understand her better than anyone,” he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the locked doors of my heart feel dangerously fragile.
“We grew up together,” I whispered, looking away to break the spell. “Now, are we going to search this warehouse or stare at each other?”
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips as he pulled his hand back, sliding out of the SUV. “Stay behind me.”
We slipped through a side access door into Warehouse 42, a massive, echoing hangar filled with towering stacks of shipping containers. The air was damp and reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. Faint light flickered from an elevated office overlooking the container floor.
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Dominic drew a sleek black firearm from his holster with practiced, fluid ease, motioning for me to stay low behind a row of wooden pallets. Every nerve ending in my body was screaming to run back to the car, back to the safety of my boring pharmacy life, but Gemma's face flashed in my mind.
We crept toward the metal staircase leading up to the office. Halfway up, a muffled sound echoed from inside the room—a sharp cry followed by a cold, arrogant laugh that made my blood run ice-cold.
