Chapter 3 - ASHES AND ORPHANS
Iris couldn't breathe. "No. No, my grandfather was a good man. He was a tailor! He didn't make bombs!"
"He made debts," Dominic corrected harshly, grabbing his ruined dress shirt and pressing it to his bleeding shoulder. "And someone in your family just cashed in on them. Coat. Now."
Before Iris could protest, the unmistakable smell of gasoline seeped under the front door of the shop.
Panic seized her. This shop was all she had left of her family, her legacy, her entire life. She lunged toward the heavy antique cash register, desperate to save her ledger, but Dominic caught her around the waist, lifting her effortlessly off her feet.
"Let me go!" she screamed, thrashing against his unyielding grip.
"They're locking us in!" he roared over her screams.
A bright, sudden flash illuminated the frosted glass windows. In seconds, the front of Bellamy’s Bespoke was engulfed in roaring orange flames. The heat was instantaneous and blistering.
Dominic didn't hesitate. He carried Iris kicking and screaming toward the back alley fire exit. He kicked the heavy steel door open, throwing them both out into the freezing Chicago rain just as the front windows blew out, showering the alley in flaming debris.
Iris collapsed onto the wet asphalt, sobbing hysterically as she watched eighty years of her family’s history turn to ash. The fifty thousand dollars. The heritage. It was gone.
"Get up," Dominic ordered. He wasn't looking at the fire. He was looking at a black SUV idling at the end of the alley. "We have three minutes before the police arrive. If the cops take me, my uncle's men will butcher me in holding."
Iris looked up at the terrifying man towering over her. "Why should I help you? You brought this to my door!"
Dominic reached into his ruined trousers and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her.
Iris unfolded it with trembling hands. It wasn't a threat or a mob ledger. It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper. It depicted a large, stick-figure man holding hands with a tiny boy. Written in messy, backward letters at the top was: UNCLE DOMMY AND LEO.
"Marcus said my uncle wants the boy," Dominic said, his voice cracking, revealing a raw, desperate humanity beneath the monster. "Leo is six. He's my dead brother's son. My uncle wants to use him as a puppet to control the family. If I don't get to him tonight, he's dead."
Iris looked from the drawing to the burning ruins of her shop. She had nothing left. But the thought of a six-year-old boy being hunted by these monsters twisted her heart.
She wiped her soot-stained face. "My car is parked on the next block. It's a rusted Volvo. They won't look for it."
Dominic nodded once, a flicker of profound gratitude in his dark eyes.
They ran through the rain, slipping into the old sedan. Iris jammed the keys into the ignition, her hands shaking so badly she could barely shift into gear.
"Where to?" she asked.
"St. Jude’s Orphanage in Oak Park," Dominic said, leaning his head back against the seat, his face dangerously pale from blood loss. "It's a front. The nuns keep him safe."
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They sped through the rain-slicked streets. But as they pulled up to the heavy iron gates of the gothic brick orphanage, Iris slammed on the brakes.
The gates were wide open. A black van was parked on the front lawn. And lying in the rain, unconscious, was an elderly nun clutching a rosary.
