Chapter 8 - The Cracks in the Gold Coast
The grand penthouse on the thirty-fourth floor of the Gold Coast luxury tower felt increasingly like a gilded lunatic asylum.
Dominic sat at the end of the long Italian marble dining table, staring at a stack of unread maritime freight reports while Vanessa paced the Persian rug in front of him.
Her golden hair was tied in a messy bun, her voice reaching that high, rhythmic cadence that now made Dominic’s temple veins throb with chronic pain.
"The decorator from Michigan Avenue brought the wrong silk damask for the nursery drapes, Dominic!" she shrieked, waving an expensive fabric swatch in the air.
"I specifically asked for French champagne silk, and this has a hideous green undertone!"
"Then call the decorator and change it, Vanessa," Dominic said without looking up from the shipping manifests, his tone flat and utterly devoid of emotion.
"I am the mother of your future heir, not an errand girl!" Vanessa slammed the fabric down onto the marble table, directly across his papers.
"Your mother refuses to speak to me because I moved her private nurse out of the guest suite to make room for my vocal coach!"
"And you sit there every evening staring into space like a ghost!"
"You don't listen to me, Dominic! You never listen to me!"
The irony of her words struck Dominic like a slap across the mouth.
He lifted his hazel eyes slowly, staring at the woman he had spent eight years romanticizing in his memory.
When Vanessa had lived in Europe, she was an exquisite idea, a thrilling mystery, a masterpiece viewed from across an ocean.
In reality, within the walls of a shared residence, she was needy, selfish, and utterly incapable of existing without an audience constantly applauding her presence.
She did not manage the household; the staff was threatening to resign en masse because of her impossible demands.
She did not soothe his mother; Margaret had locked herself in her suite, complaining that Vanessa’s voice sounded like a screech owl in the corridor.
And most unforgivably, Vanessa possessed none of the deep, intuitive tranquility that had once made his home feel like a fortress against the cruelties of the corporate world.
Emma had never screamed about silk drapes.
Emma had understood that an empire was built on quiet foundations.
"Vanessa," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that chilling, dangerous octave that made board members freeze in their seats.
"The doctors confirmed yesterday that you are entering your second trimester with zero medical complications."
"You have an entire floor of this building, a private chauffeured car, an unlimited black credit card, and an entire team of domestic staff at your beck and call."
"If you yell in this room one more time, I will move you to the Lake Forest estate tonight and leave you there with the caretakers until delivery."
Vanessa gasped, clutching her chest in theatrical horror.
"You wouldn't dare! Your mother would never allow it!"
"My mother doesn't own this company, and she doesn't own me," Dominic growled, standing up and towering over the table.
"Now pick up your fabric, walk out of this dining room, and let me work in peace."
Vanessa glared at him with pure venom before spinning on her designer slippers and storming down the corridor, slamming the bedroom door behind her until the crystal sconces shook.
Dominic slumped back down into his leather chair, running a trembling hand down his face.
His ears were ringing—a phantom high-frequency buzz that had returned over the past two weeks, a stress-induced tinnitus that mocked his perfectly healed auditory canal.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the latest surveillance folder handed to him by Gabriel an hour ago.
Inside were photographs of empty buildings, closed legal offices, and dead-end corporate filings across three states.
Emma had vanished as cleanly as morning dew under a blazing sun.
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the only thing he had recovered from her vanity table in Lake Forest before the cleaners boxed her belongings.
It was a small, worn leather journal containing her architectural sketches from her university days.
On the inside front cover, written in her neat, delicate hand five years ago, was an inscription:
To Dominic—In your quiet strength, I found my shelter. I will spend my life making sure you never feel alone in the dark.
A hot, scalding tear spilled from Dominic’s left eye, tracking down his stubbled jaw and dropping onto the yellowed paper.
He hadn't sheltered her.
He had caged her.
He had taken her tender, selfless vow and used it to turn her into an invisible caretaker while he chased a noisy, empty mirage.
His phone flashed on the desk blotter, displaying the name of his chief corporate communications officer, Marcus.
Dominic hit speakerphone with a heavy sigh. "What is it, Marcus?"
"Mr. Moretti, the regional press release for the Maritime Preservation Gala is ready for final distribution."
"The recipient for the two-million-dollar eco-architecture endowment has formally accepted our terms."
"Who is it?" Dominic asked, his mind wandering miles away from corporate public relations.
"Studio Rossi Design, Mr. Moretti," Marcus answered briskly.
"They are a boutique architectural firm operating out of the Upper Midwest, specializing in historic Great Lakes timber preservation."
"The lead architect will not be attending the press briefing in person, but their managing representative confirmed the principal designer will deliver the acceptance speech at the gala in three weeks."
Dominic froze, the name echoing in his head with the precision of a church bell.
Rossi.
It was a common Italian surname; Chicago was full of Rossis, from masonry contractors to high-end delicatessen owners.
Emma’s late father had run Rossi & Associates Structural Design before Dominic absorbed the debts and folded the assets.
"Marcus, did the application include the name of the principal architect?" Dominic asked, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"No, sir. The registration is listed under Studio Rossi LLC, represented by Julian Vance as the managing project partner."
Julian Vance.
Gabriel’s younger brother.
The renegade landscape architect who had refused to join the family firm and had severed ties with Gabriel three years ago over corporate ethics.
Dominic hung up the phone without another word.
He grabbed his overcoat, walked out of the penthouse, and stepped into the private elevator.
The scent of white lilies in the living room made him want to vomit.
May you like
For the first time in sixty days, the cold, heavy darkness in Dominic Moretti’s chest was pierced by a blinding, terrifying flash of light.
The woman he had silenced was holding the blueprint to his own foundation.
