Chapter 2 - The Car That Never Missed
Dominic did not react immediately.
That frightened Clara more than anger would have.
The man approaching the garage was Vincent Hale.
Forty-two years old.
Former military.
Former private security contractor.
Dominic had hired him after an assassination attempt four years earlier.
Vincent designed the security protocols protecting Dominic’s offices, vehicles, warehouses, residences, and communications.
He knew where cameras were positioned.
He knew which elevators locked at midnight.
He knew Dominic’s preferred routes.
He knew Clara’s schedule.
Dominic watched him walk toward the garage entrance.
“Stay in the car.”
“Dominic—”
“Lock the doors.”
He stepped out.
Clara grabbed his sleeve.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You don’t know what he’s doing.”
“I intend to ask.”
“You can’t just—”
“Clara.”
His voice softened.
“You survived a bridge tonight.”
She stopped.
“Let me handle the garage.”
Dominic closed the door.
Clara locked it.
Vincent approached.
He looked surprised to see Dominic.
“Boss?”
Dominic stood beside the Audi.
“Late night.”
Vincent glanced toward the vehicle.
“Security alert.”
“What alert?”
“Camera six went offline.”
Dominic looked toward the ceiling.
“Camera six.”
“Yes.”
“And you came personally?”
Vincent nodded.
“I was close.”
That answer was wrong.
Vincent lived thirty-five minutes away.
Dominic knew because Clara had negotiated his housing allowance.
“How close?”
Vincent hesitated.
“Ten minutes.”
“Doing what?”
Another pause.
Vincent smiled.
Not naturally.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Dominic looked across the street.
The black SUV remained parked there.
“Yours?”
Vincent followed his gaze.
“No.”
“Interesting.”
Vincent’s shoulders changed.
Subtle.
Almost nothing.
But Dominic saw it.
“What’s going on?” Vincent asked.
Dominic took one step closer.
“Someone ran Clara off Franklin Bridge.”
Vincent’s face registered surprise.
Too late.
Half a second too late.
Dominic noticed.
“Jesus.”
Vincent looked toward the Audi again.
“Is she alive?”
Dominic said nothing.
Vincent realized the mistake.
“You said someone ran her off the bridge. I assumed—”
“She’s alive.”
“Good.”
Dominic studied him.
“You knew her route.”
“So did twenty people.”
“Name five.”
Vincent smiled again.
“Boss, what is this?”
“Name five.”
Silence.
Clara watched through the glass.
Her heart pounded.
Dominic was not shouting.
That was worse.
The calmer he became, the more dangerous the situation felt.
Finally, Vincent lifted both hands.
“Okay. Me. You. Clara. Her driver when she uses one. Maybe dispatch.”
“She drove herself tonight.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Dominic’s expression never moved.
Vincent continued.
“I came because the camera went down.”
“Which camera?”
“Six.”
Dominic glanced upward.
“Camera six covers the east entrance.”
“Yes.”
“You came through the west entrance.”
Vincent froze.
One second.
Two.
Then every light in the garage went out.
Clara screamed.
Dominic heard movement.
Footsteps.
Metal scraping.
A car door.
He moved toward the Audi.
“Clara!”
Headlights burst on across the garage.
The black SUV accelerated.
Not toward Dominic.
Toward Clara.
Dominic threw himself against the Audi’s passenger side.
“Get down!”
The SUV swerved at the final second and smashed into the concrete pillar beside the car.
Airbags exploded inside the SUV.
Dominic pulled Clara’s door open.
“Move!”
She stumbled out.
Pain tore through her ribs.
Dominic wrapped one arm around her and moved behind the concrete support.
Security alarms began screaming.
Emergency lighting flickered red.
Vincent was gone.
The driver of the SUV kicked open his door.
Dominic saw only a dark jacket and mask before the man ran toward the service exit.
Dominic could have followed.
Instead, he stayed with Clara.
That choice did not escape her.
“You let him go.”
“You’re hurt.”
“But—”
“I can find him tomorrow.”
Dominic looked directly at her.
“I can’t replace you tomorrow.”
The words silenced her.
Within minutes, Dominic’s secondary security team flooded the garage.
He trusted none of them completely.
Not anymore.
Dominic ordered the building sealed.
Vincent Hale disappeared before anyone found him.
His company phone was discovered in a trash can three blocks away.
His apartment had been emptied.
His bank accounts had been drained forty-eight hours earlier.
Clara sat in Dominic’s penthouse kitchen while the investigation began.
The penthouse was enormous.
Glass walls.
Dark wood.
Minimal furniture.
Almost no personal photographs.
It looked less like a home than a carefully designed fortress pretending to be luxurious.
Dominic placed pain medication and water in front of her.
“Take it.”
“I hate pills.”
“I know.”
She stared.
“How?”
“You once rescheduled dental surgery three times because you refused the prescription afterward.”
Clara blinked.
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything that complicates my calendar.”
She almost smiled.
He sat across from her.
For the first time she noticed how tired he looked.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
Betrayal exhausted men like Dominic.
Vincent had protected him for years.
“Do you believe he did it?” Clara asked.
“No.”
She frowned.
“You think he’s innocent?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I think he’s involved.”
Dominic folded his hands.
“But Vincent doesn’t make symbolic threats.”
“The crown sticker.”
“Yes.”
“You think someone wants war with Moretti?”
“I think someone wants me to believe Moretti touched you.”
Clara looked down.
“And then?”
“Then I retaliate.”
“Starting a war.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That’s the question.”
Clara stared at the city beyond the windows.
Rain ran down the glass.
“Maybe Moretti actually did it.”
Dominic shook his head.
“You’re certain?”
“Antonio Moretti hates me.”
“That sounds promising.”
“He also respects rules.”
“There are rules?”
“In our world?”
Dominic leaned back.
“More than in yours.”
Clara gave him a look.
“My world is your world.”
The sentence settled between them.
Dominic looked away first.
His phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Dominic.”
He stood.
“Get some rest.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re terrible at lying when you care whether someone believes you.”
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
“What did you say?”
Clara realized what she had said.
“I said you’re—”
“No.”
His voice was quieter.
“The other part.”
She looked at him.
“When you care whether someone believes you.”
Dominic’s face became unreadable.
Then he put the phone on the counter.
The screen showed a message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
One photograph was attached.
Clara leaned closer.
It was a picture of her.
Taken that evening.
She was leaving Romano Holdings.
Timestamp: 11:48 p.m.
Below it was another photograph.
Clara at a gas station.
12:51 a.m.
Another.
Her car entering Franklin Bridge.
1:17 a.m.
And another.
Her car destroyed at the bottom of the embankment.
1:29 a.m.
Then a message.
SHE WAS NEVER THE TARGET.
Clara stared.
“What does that mean?”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
A second message arrived.
YOU WERE.
Dominic looked at Clara.
Then another photograph loaded.
This one had been taken five years earlier.
A younger Clara stood outside Romano Holdings holding a folder.
It was the day of her job interview.
Dominic remembered it.
Clara did too.
Someone had photographed her before she had even worked for him.
Below the image were six words.
SHE WAS CHOSEN BEFORE YOU HIRED HER.
Clara sat very still.
“That’s impossible.”
Dominic picked up the phone.
“Who recommended you for the position?”
“No one.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“A recruitment firm.”
“Which one?”
“Sterling Executive.”
Dominic went pale.
Clara noticed.
“What?”
“Sterling Executive doesn’t exist.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It existed on paper.”
He began typing quickly.
“I bought the company three years ago while consolidating subsidiaries.”
“So?”
“It had no employees.”
Clara stared at him.
“That makes no sense.”
“It was a shell.”
Her breathing slowed.
“You’re saying someone created a fake recruitment firm...”
“To send you to me.”
“Why?”
Dominic looked at the old photograph.
That question frightened him more than the assassination attempt.
Because for five years Clara had been beside him.
Accessing confidential schedules.
Handling private accounts.
Standing close enough to destroy him a thousand times.
Yet she never had.
Unless she was waiting.
Dominic hated himself for the thought.
Clara saw it anyway.
“You think I knew.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I think nothing yet.”
She stood too quickly.
Pain stabbed her ribs.
She grabbed the counter.
Dominic immediately moved toward her.
She backed away.
“Don’t.”
His expression tightened.
“You think I was planted here.”
“I think someone placed you in my path.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
“Then say it.”
Dominic looked directly at her.
“I don’t think you betrayed me.”
Her face softened slightly.
“But somebody wanted you near me.”
Clara swallowed.
“And we need to know why.”
Dominic nodded.
At 4:12 a.m., Clara remembered something.
Her original interview packet.
She had kept everything from that period because she had been desperate for work.
Resumes.
Reference letters.
Contracts.
The recruitment correspondence.
All stored inside a black folder in a box at her apartment.
Dominic immediately called two men.
Clara stopped him.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“If Vincent had access to my schedule, he knows my address.”
“Yes.”
“So sending your people there tells whoever is watching exactly what matters.”
Dominic considered that.
“What do you suggest?”
“We go ourselves.”
“No.”
“Dominic—”
“You have fractured ribs.”
“And you just discovered I may have been deliberately placed inside your organization five years ago.”
She crossed her arms carefully.
“I’m going.”
He stared.
She stared back.
Finally, Dominic sighed.
“Fine.”
They reached Clara’s apartment shortly before sunrise.
Nothing looked disturbed.
The door remained locked.
Dominic entered first.
Clara followed.
Her apartment was modest.
Books.
Plants.
Cream-colored furniture.
A framed photograph of her parents.
Dominic noticed how much warmer it felt than his penthouse.
Clara went toward the bedroom closet.
She knelt painfully beside a storage box.
“Here.”
Inside were old financial documents.
Diplomas.
Tax records.
Then she removed a black folder.
Dominic opened it.
Resume.
Interview notes.
Recruitment emails.
Offer letter.
And beneath them—
a sealed envelope.
Clara frowned.
“I’ve never seen that.”
Dominic examined it.
No stamp.
No mailing address.
Only his name.
DOMINIC ROMANO.
Written by hand.
He opened it.
Inside was a single piece of paper.
One sentence.
He read it.
Then read it again.
Clara watched his face.
“What does it say?”
Dominic handed her the page.
Her fingers trembled as she read.
IF YOU EVER WANT TO KNOW WHO KILLED YOUR FATHER, KEEP CLARA BENNETT CLOSE.
Clara looked up.
Dominic had gone completely still.
“My father died eleven years ago.”
“I know.”
“He was murdered.”
“I know.”
Clara looked at the note again.
Then something fell from the envelope.
A photograph.
Old.
Faded.
Dominic picked it up.
It showed two men standing outside a restaurant.
One was Dominic’s father.
Salvatore Romano.
The other man was younger.
Clara stared at him.
Her face drained of color.
“No.”
Dominic looked at her.
“You know him.”
Clara’s lips trembled.
“That’s my father.”
And suddenly the hospital call, the bridge, the fake recruitment agency, and the past five years became parts of something far older.
May you like
Something neither of them had been told.
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