Chapter 1 - The Puppy Who Stole the Wrong Contract
A twelve-pound puppy tore across the office while I lunged after him and yelled: “Give that back!”
Dominic Vale stepped through the doorway and saw the contract hanging from the dog’s mouth.
A black number had been written beside one signature.
Dominic stopped smiling.
That number meant somebody inside his organization had lied.
Thirty seconds earlier, I had been sitting in his chair.
That detail seemed important.
Maybe not as important as the contract now being dragged across an antique Persian rug by a terrier named Winston, but definitely important enough to get me fired.
Possibly worse.
My name was Emma Carter, I was twenty-six years old, and until that morning my biggest professional concern had been whether Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, would notice that I had accidentally switched the silver-polishing cloths with the ones meant for the upstairs mirrors.
Then Winston changed my career trajectory.
It started because Dominic Vale had left his office for what I assumed would be twenty minutes.
Mrs. Bellamy had ordered me to dust the bookshelves, polish the desk, and under no circumstances touch anything lying on top of it.
I had followed two-thirds of those instructions perfectly.
The glasses were my mistake.
They were sitting beside an open file, thin black frames that somehow looked as intimidating as the man who owned them.
I had picked them up only because Winston had jumped against my leg and startled me.
Then I put them on.
Then Winston barked.
Then I sat in Dominic’s chair and whispered, “Mr. Winston, your quarterly performance has been disappointing.”
The puppy sneezed at me.
“You’ve been stealing socks, terrorizing the cook, and showing absolutely no respect for senior management.”
Winston tilted his head.
I pointed at him.
“One more incident, and I’m putting a disciplinary note in your file.”
That was when someone behind me said, “I’d like to see his file.”
Every muscle in my body froze.
Dominic Vale stood in the doorway.
Two men in dark suits stood behind him.
I knew one of them as Luca Moretti, Dominic’s security chief. The other was Gabriel Torres, a quiet man who looked like he had never once lost an argument.
Dominic himself was worse.
Tall.
Black shirt rolled over tattooed forearms.
Dark hair pushed carelessly away from his forehead.
A crystal tumbler in one hand.
Expression unreadable.
Chicago newspapers never printed his name beside the word “crime boss,” because newspapers employed lawyers.
But everyone knew.
Everyone also knew Dominic Vale had not laughed since his younger brother, Matteo, had been killed nine years earlier.
That was the legend, anyway.
At that moment, I was mostly concerned that Dominic might not laugh for the next ninety years either.
I slowly removed his glasses.
“I can explain.”
“I hope so.”
I stood.
Unfortunately, one heel of my bare foot landed on Winston’s squeaky toy.
SQUEAK.
Nobody moved.
I looked down.
Dominic looked down.
Luca appeared to be reconsidering every decision that had brought him into this room.
“I was cleaning,” I said.
“In my chair.”
“Yes.”
“Wearing my glasses.”
“Yes.”
“Conducting an employee review with my dog.”
I swallowed.
“That part sounds worse when you say it.”
Something changed around Dominic’s mouth.
Not quite a smile.
Then Winston saw the document.
The confidential contract had been lying partly beneath another folder.
Before I could stop him, the puppy rose onto his hind legs, caught the corner between his teeth, and pulled.
“No.”
Winston ran.
I ran after him.
“Give that back!”
He darted around the desk.
I lunged.
He changed direction.
I nearly collided with a leather chair.
Dominic stepped aside as Winston flew past him triumphantly.
And then it happened.
Dominic laughed.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
A real laugh.
Deep and unexpected.
The entire office seemed to stop breathing.
Luca stared at him.
Gabriel stared harder.
I stopped chasing Winston long enough to stare too.
Dominic looked almost surprised by himself.
Then I pointed accusingly at the dog.
“Before anyone decides whether I’m still employed, I’d like the record to show that he started it.”
Dominic laughed again.
Winston chose that moment to shake the contract.
A page tore loose.
Dominic’s expression changed instantly.
“Winston.”
The puppy stopped.
Apparently the dog understood tone better than I did.
Dominic crouched and held out his hand.
“Come.”
Winston trotted toward him.
Dominic removed the contract from his mouth and examined it.
That was when Luca noticed the handwritten number.
“Boss.”
Dominic looked down.
His smile disappeared.
“What is it?” I asked before remembering that employees generally survived longer when they did not ask questions about confidential criminal documents.
Nobody answered.
Dominic carried the paper to the desk.
I saw three names near the bottom.
One belonged to a company I recognized.
Hawthorne Development Group.
My father had worked for them.
Before he died.
I felt cold.
Dominic noticed.
“You know that name?”
I should have lied.
Instead, I said, “My father was an accountant there.”
Luca’s attention snapped toward me.
“What was his name?”
“Jonathan Carter.”
The silence afterward was different.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Dominic slowly lowered the contract.
“When did he die?”
“Eight years ago.”
“How?”
“A car accident.”
Gabriel turned toward Luca.
Something passed between them.
Dominic’s eyes stayed on me.
“Who told you it was an accident?”
“My mother. The police. Everyone.”
His jaw tightened.
I hated the feeling spreading through my chest.
“What does my father have to do with this?”
Dominic folded the contract.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I had spent most of my life hearing adults tell me not to worry about things that clearly required worrying.
“My father’s company is written on a contract hidden in your office. Your security chief just reacted like I announced a bomb threat. And there’s a number written beside the signature. I think I’m past not worrying.”
Luca looked irritated.
Dominic looked interested.
“Do you always argue with your employer?”
“Only when my employer gives suspicious answers.”
“I could fire you.”
“I already assumed that was happening.”
“And yet you’re still talking.”
“I’m trying to leave with closure.”
Another flicker of amusement crossed his face.
Then Luca interrupted.
“Dominic.”
That was the first time I heard someone in the house use his first name without hesitation.
Dominic turned.
Luca pointed toward the number.
“917 was Matteo’s locker code.”
Dominic went completely still.
I did not know who Matteo was yet.
But I saw what the name did to him.
The warmth vanished.
Every wall returned.
“Impossible.”
Gabriel stepped closer.
“No one outside the family knew that number.”
Dominic looked at the signature.
Then at me.
“Your father worked for Hawthorne exactly when?”
“Until September eight years ago.”
“What date did he die?”
“September seventeenth.”
Luca whispered, “Nine-seventeen.”
I stopped breathing.
Dominic’s gaze sharpened.
“That’s not a locker number.”
Luca frowned.
“What?”
“It’s a date.”
My mouth went dry.
September 17.
My father had died September seventeenth.
I suddenly remembered something I had not thought about in years.
The night before his accident, my father had come home terrified.
He had locked every door.
Closed every curtain.
Then he had given me a little wooden music box that belonged to my grandmother.
I had been eighteen.
He had said, “If anybody ever asks about my work, you know nothing.”
The next morning, he was dead.
My mother sold the house six months later.
The music box disappeared during the move.
At least, I thought it had.
Dominic watched my face.
“You remembered something.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That was a terrible lie.”
I looked toward the door.
“Can I go?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“That sounded less like an employment conversation and more like kidnapping.”
“You walked into something dangerous, Emma.”
“I was dusting.”
“You were wearing my glasses.”
“That still isn’t a felony.”
Gabriel coughed.
It suspiciously resembled a laugh.
Dominic ignored him.
“Your father may have known something about my brother’s death.”
The words hit me harder than they should have.
“Your brother died nine years ago.”
Dominic’s face changed.
“How do you know that?”
Everyone in Chicago knew rumors.
But saying that felt unwise.
“I heard people talk.”
“My brother died nine years ago,” Dominic repeated. “Your father died eight years ago. Hawthorne Development appears in both timelines.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What happened to your brother?”
Dominic did not answer.
Instead, he opened a locked drawer and removed a photograph.
Two young men stood beside a black car.
One was Dominic, younger and smiling.
The other looked like him but softer.
Matteo.
Dominic placed the photograph beside the contract.
“Matteo was investigating Hawthorne before he died.”
I stared.
“Investigating what?”
“Money laundering. Property fraud. Judges being paid. City inspectors disappearing.”
I looked toward the contract.
“And my father?”
“We never knew Hawthorne’s accountant.”
Something inside me shifted.
All my childhood memories of my father suddenly rearranged themselves.
The late nights.
The locked briefcase.
The arguments whispered behind my parents’ bedroom door.
The morning he died.
I whispered, “You think he helped them?”
“No.”
Dominic’s answer came too quickly.
I looked up.
“Why?”
“Because if he helped them, his name would be on this contract.”
“It isn’t?”
Dominic turned the page toward me.
The signatures belonged to three executives.
None were Jonathan Carter.
Then he tapped the handwritten 917.
“Someone added this afterward.”
Luca said, “Could be a warning.”
“Or coordinates,” Gabriel said.
“Or a date,” I whispered.
Dominic looked at me.
“Tell me everything you remember about September seventeenth.”
So I did.
Not much.
My father had left early.
He called at noon.
He told me to take care of my mother.
He sounded strange.
At 4:17 p.m., police arrived.
His car had supposedly crossed a median on Lake Shore Drive.
No witnesses.
No other vehicle.
Case closed.
Dominic listened without interrupting.
Then I remembered the music box.
“He gave me something.”
All three men looked at me.
“A wooden music box.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said he gave it to you.”
“He did. It disappeared when we moved.”
Dominic leaned against the desk.
“Who packed your belongings?”
“My mother. Mostly.”
“Where is she now?”
“Arizona.”
“Call her.”
I stared at him.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
I pulled out my phone.
My mother answered on the fourth ring.
“Emma?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“You’re calling during work?”
“I need to ask you something.”
Dominic watched me from across the desk.
I turned away.
“Do you remember Dad’s wooden music box?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
Her voice changed.
“Why are you asking about that?”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
“I just remembered it.”
“Emma.”
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
Another silence.
Then she whispered, “Is Dominic Vale there?”
I looked at him.
He heard.
His face hardened.
“How do you know that name?”
My mother began breathing quickly.
“Emma, listen to me. You need to leave that house.”
“Mom—”
“Right now.”
“Why?”
“Because your father made me promise that if a Vale ever came looking for that box, I would take you and disappear.”
Dominic stepped toward me.
My hand shook around the phone.
“Mom, where is the box?”
She did not answer.
“Mom?”
A noise came through the line.
A doorbell.
Then my mother whispered, “Someone’s here.”
“Don’t open it.”
Another sound.
A knock.
Three slow taps.
My mother stopped breathing.
“Emma…”
“What?”
“I never lost the music box.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Where is it?”
Her next words came out barely above a whisper.
“I mailed it to you yesterday.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
Then a notification appeared.
DELIVERY CONFIRMED.
My apartment building.
4:08 p.m.
I looked at the clock on Dominic’s desk.
4:16.
Dominic read my expression.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward him.
“The box is at my apartment.”
Luca immediately reached beneath his jacket.
Dominic grabbed his coat.
“We’re going.”
Then my phone vibrated again.
Unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
My apartment door.
Open.
The package sitting just inside.
May you like
And beneath it, one message:
WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU TO COME HOME.
