Chapter 6 - The Price of a Name
Richard Cole’s arrest tore through Chicago.
Investigations followed.
Contractors resigned.
Two city officials were indicted.
A retired detective admitted Michael Bennett’s death had been deliberately classified as an accident.
My father’s name was publicly cleared.
But the investigation also reached Dominic.
I found him alone at Leon’s three weeks later.
Table four.
Black coffee.
No bodyguards.
“You disappeared,” I said.
“I was busy.”
“I noticed.”
He slid a folder toward me.
“What’s this?”
“Your father’s compensation.”
I opened it.
Inside were documents showing a settlement from Vance Freight.
Enough to pay my mother’s debts.
Enough to cover Noah’s college.
Enough that I could stop working two jobs.
I closed it.
“No.”
Dominic frowned.
“No?”
“I don't want charity.”
“It isn't charity.”
“It looks like it.”
“My father failed yours. The company benefited from his silence. This is restitution.”
I studied him.
“Did your lawyers approve this?”
“They hated it.”
“Good.”
He almost smiled.
“There’s something else.”
He handed me another envelope.
Inside was a lease.
For a restaurant space.
I stared at him.
“What is this?”
“You told Carlo once you wanted your own place.”
“You were spying on me?”
“I prefer listening.”
“Dominic.”
“The building belongs to me.”
“Of course it does.”
“The ground floor is empty.”
“I can't afford Magnificent Mile rent.”
“One dollar.”
I pushed the lease back.
“Absolutely not.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“Why?”
“Because someday you'll get angry and say you gave me everything.”
His expression changed.
“I would never do that.”
“Then don't give it to me.”
“What do you want?”
“A business loan.”
“You want to borrow money from a man newspapers call a mafia boss?”
“Your interest rates better be legal.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Fine.”
“And I want market rent.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So is one dollar.”
“Half market.”
“Eighty percent.”
“Sixty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Seventy.”
I held out my hand.
“Deal.”
He stared at it.
Then shook it.
“Deal.”
Neither of us released immediately.
I looked at him.
“Why are you really doing this?”
He was quiet.
Then:
“Because you walked toward me when everyone else walked away.”
“That’s a terrible reason to finance a restaurant.”
“I’m not talking about the restaurant.”
My pulse changed.
“Dominic.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
“You think I’m about to say something complicated.”
“Aren't you?”
“No.”
He stood.
“I like you, Daisy.”
I blinked.
“That’s your speech?”
“Yes.”
“Chicago’s most terrifying man can't do better?”
“I had a longer version.”
“What happened?”
“You looked impatient.”
I laughed.
Then his expression became serious.
“I’m not asking you to become part of my world.”
“Good.”
“I’m trying to leave parts of it.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of myself.”
That answer mattered.
I stepped closer.
“So what are you asking?”
“Dinner.”
I stared at him.
“We've had dinner.”
“You served me.”
“Technically.”
“A real dinner.”
“Will you issue commands?”
“Probably.”
“Then no.”
“Daisy.”
I smiled.
“Ask properly.”
He shook his head.
Then, with the patience of a man who had apparently learned something:
“Daisy Bennett, would you have dinner with me?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Friday?”
“I'm working.”
“Saturday?”
“Working.”
“Sunday?”
“Maybe.”
He stared at me.
“You're doing this deliberately.”
“Absolutely.”
For the first time since I'd met him, Dominic Vance looked completely powerless.
May you like
I liked him better that way.
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