Chapter 7 - Rules of SurvivalDominic’s safe house did not look like a villain’s lair.
That annoyed Emma.
She had expected marble floors, red wine, maybe a wall of weapons behind glass. Instead, the house was a renovated greystone in Lincoln Park with bookshelves, warm lamps, and a kitchen cleaner than Rosie’s health inspector could have dreamed of.
“This is disappointing,” Sarah said from the doorway.
Emma turned. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I was kidnapped. I get to judge interior design.”
Cole stood behind her, carrying three grocery bags and looking deeply uncomfortable.
Rosie arrived next with Elena, who moved carefully but refused help. Detective Harris came last, muttering about how being inside Dominic Vale’s safe house was going to give him acid reflux.
Dominic gathered them in the kitchen.
Emma noticed he stood despite his stitches.
Of course he did.
“Here are the rules,” he said.
Sarah raised a hand. “Are these mafia rules or house rules?”
“Survival rules.”
“Less charming.”
Dominic continued. “No one leaves alone. No one answers unknown calls. No social media. No speaking to reporters. If police contact you, call Harris first. If anyone mentions Moretti, Adrian, Rosie’s loan, or the diner property, you say nothing.”
Emma leaned against the counter. “You forgot no breathing without written approval.”
Dominic looked at her. “Breathing is encouraged.”
“Generous.”
Rosie rubbed her forehead. “How long do we hide?”
“We don’t hide,” Dominic said. “We gather evidence.”
Harris placed a folder on the table. “Rourke has been pressuring six small businesses on that block. Rosie’s the last holdout. Moretti’s shell company already owns the laundromat and pharmacy building.”
Emma’s stomach tightened.
“The pharmacy too?”
Harris nodded. “Owner sold last month after three surprise inspections and a vandalism incident.”
Rosie whispered, “Poor Mr. Patel.”
Dominic opened the folder. “Moretti’s payments go through a development firm called Northline Urban Renewal.”
Sarah frowned. “That sounds fake.”
“It is,” Cole said.
Emma looked at the paperwork. Names. Transfers. Properties. City signatures.
Her world had always been bills taped to the fridge, shift schedules, bank overdrafts. This was money moving like poison through expensive paper.
“How do we stop it?” she asked.
Harris looked tired. “We need proof linking Moretti to the threats, Rourke to the false inspections, and Adrian to the kidnapping.”
Sarah sat straighter. “I saw Adrian.”
“Your testimony helps,” Harris said. “But his lawyers will say trauma confused you.”
Sarah’s face hardened. “I was scared, not blind.”
Emma squeezed her shoulder.
Rosie stared at Dominic. “And what do you get out of this?”
The room quieted.
Dominic looked at her. “Frank gave me work when no one else would look at me.”
“That was Frank.”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead.”
Dominic’s eyes softened. “Debts don’t die just because people do.”
Rosie covered her mouth.
Emma felt something twist behind her ribs.
This was the problem with Dominic Vale. Every time she convinced herself he was only dangerous, he did something human enough to make danger complicated.
Later, Emma found him in the library, one hand pressed to his bandaged side as he studied a map of the block.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she said.
“You sound like my doctor.”
“Your doctor looked twelve and kept calling you sir.”
“He was qualified.”
“He was terrified.”
Dominic turned. “Most people are.”
Emma stepped inside. “Do you like that?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, “It keeps people alive.”
“Fear?”
“Distance.”
Emma looked at the shelves. History books. Poetry. Architecture. A worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo with taped binding.
“You read?” she asked.
“Shocking.”
“I assumed you absorbed knowledge from shadows.”
This time he smiled.
Emma moved closer to the map. Red circles marked buildings. Blue lines marked streets. Black X’s marked places she did not want explained.
“My mother used to say people become dangerous when they think no one needs them,” she said.
Dominic watched her.
“She got sick when I was twenty. I quit school to take care of her. Everyone said I was brave.” Emma swallowed. “But after she died, nobody needed me that way anymore. I didn’t know who I was without the emergency.”
Dominic’s voice was quiet. “And now?”
“Now I’m a waitress yelling at mafia bosses in parking garages.”
“That is a very specific identity.”
She laughed before she could stop herself.
The sound surprised them both.
Then Dominic’s phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
His face went cold.
“What?” Emma asked.
He showed her the message.
A photo of Rosie’s Diner.
Taken from inside.
On the counter sat Emma’s old college acceptance letter, the one she kept taped behind the register as a private reminder that she had once been going somewhere.
Below it was one sentence.
She still dreams. We can burn that too.
Emma’s breath left her.
May you like
Dominic’s voice turned deadly soft.
“They were inside the diner.”
