Chapter 2 (Dominic’s POV)

A bullet screamed past Dominic Voss’s head, Millennium Park erupting into a crimson haze. Grass stained red under his boots as Caleb Warrick’s sneer lingered, the traitor’s shot searing his side.

At fifty-two, he towered at six-foot-two, a broad frame carved by years of rule, salt-and-pepper hair slick with sweat, a scar raking his left cheek from a forgotten fight.

Born in the South Side’s filth, he’d clawed upward, knifing his mentor for control of gambling joints in Wicker Park and rackets in the Loop. His Streeterville penthouse glittered with wealth, a glass fortress where his word shaped the city, though whispers labeled him a tyrant.

He couldn't stop thinking about the kiss he stole from Luca, a soldier's bold lips in a dark pub. It was buried because of the mafia's strict law. Now, he couldn't remember anything. He had sixty days to get his crown back, and the hit was a hole of anguish and sorrow.

Rain lashed the flat, its peeling walls a jagged contrast to his past. Noah bent before him, lean at five-foot-ten, dark hair dripping from the storm, hazel eyes focused as he cleaned his wound.

A leather jacket hugged his form, winged tattoos peeking from a rolled sleeve, a testament to a hard-fought life. The room carried the tang of wet cloth and antiseptic, toy trucks strewn across a worn rug, a child’s chaos clashing with Dominic’s world.

His side hurt, but Noah's firm, warm fingertips made it feel better. A little heat ran through the pain.

“Hold still, you’re a wreck,” Noah said, jabbing a needle with a scowl.

“Still a sight, though, right?” Dominic teased, clenching his jaw.

“Flirt later. This stings me worse.”

The kid's fingers pushed softly, and a sensation spread where they stayed. Dominic's chest clenched; he was losing power, yet this dancer kept him anchored.

The storm made the flat groan, which was a weak barrier. He snarled as the needle went in, and then there were flashes of Caleb's gun, the shouts of the park, and then darkness. Noah's breath brushed over his skin, and the ache went away.

“Who carved you up?” Noah asked, knotting the thread.

“Caleb. A backstabber I knew,” Dominic growled, eyes narrowing.

“Lovely. I’m sewing up a mob war.”

Noah’s sharp tongue danced, but his touch stayed, brushing Dominic’s arm. A warmth bloomed, Luca’s memory dimming under this new draw.

The couch sagged, its fabric scraping his back. He shifted, coat slipping to reveal a muscled chest, scars tracing a life of dominance. Noah’s gaze flicked there, a flush rising on his neck, and Dominic felt a stir, a quiet want stirring.

“Are you a scrapper or just clumsy?” Noah asked, stepping back.

“Both, I’d bet,” Dominic replied, voice deep. “Life’s a slugfest.”

“Hope it’s worth it. I’m no medic.”

“Might be your golden ticket, kid.”

The words sparked, a line pulling tight. Noah rubbed his hands, damp cold biting, and moved to a sink. Water splashed into a glass, the sound crisp in the hush. He handed it over, fingers grazing Dominic’s, a jolt racing anew.

“Drink. You look like a corpse,” Noah said.

“Nice of you,” Dominic took it, sipping slowly. “Not bad for a stage rat.”

“Don’t expect an encore.”

He set the glass down, the clink ringing out. The flat shrank, tension thickening like damp earth. Noah paced to a window, rain streaking the pane, the city a shadow of threats.

Dominic watched, gray eyes softening, a bond weaving in the quiet. His side throbbed, but Noah’s nearness dulled it, a warmth against the chill.

“Got foes out there?” Noah asked, glancing back.

“Too many to count,” Dominic admitted, leaning in.

“Great. I’m hiding a bullseye.”

“Could line your pockets, darling.”

Noah laughed, the sound jagged. He scratched his chin, stubble rasping, the weight of his world etched in his stance.

Dominic’s hand rested on the armrest, scars glinting, a badge of power. Noah’s breath quickened, the room closing in, their air mingling in the wet gloom.

“Get some rest,” Noah said, turning away.

“Only if you hang close,” Dominic murmured, eyes locked.

“Keep wishing, big man.”

He stepped to a crib, the wood whining as he checked a sleeping boy, Eli, he figured. A toy toppled, clattering soft. The rain beat harder, a pulse of dread. Dominic’s gaze followed, a quiet fire building.

“You got a kid, huh?” Dominic asked, voice gentle.

“Yeah, Eli. My son,” Noah replied, voice low.

“Tough gig. You’re strong.”

“Strong don’t pay the bills.”

The conversation went on, and a thread of trust began to grow. Noah moved a blanket around.

The fabric felt cool under his fingers, and his mind went back to the days when he was a youngster in the dark, with a life out of reach.

Dominic's presence infused the room with a mix of menace and attraction. He proceeded to a chair, his legs grinding against it, and sat down to watch the rain. The walls shook as thunder rumbled.

“Storm’s wild,” Noah said, peering out.

“Fits the night,” Dominic nodded, shifting.

“Hope it doesn't bring trouble.”

“Trouble’s already here, kid.”

Noah smirked, and for a moment the tension went away. He stretched, his muscles sore from the day, and looked at Dominic's scars, which told the narrative of how he survived. His heart raced, and the room felt like a cocoon of heat and fear.

“Those marks tell tales?” he asked, nodding at the chest.

“More than you’d hear,” Dominic said, a faint grin.

“Gonna spill one?”

“Maybe, if you earn it.”

The banter flowed, a dance of words. Noah leaned back, the chair creaking, his thoughts tangling with this man’s mystery. The rain pounded, a relentless beat. Dominic’s hand flexed, scars catching the light, a silent promise of strength.

The phone buzzed, slicing the calm. Noah snatched it, voice tight. “Yeah?”

“Noah, it’s Harper. I’m back for Eli,” a woman’s voice cut in, icy and firm.

Dominic’s stomach lurched, hand gripping Noah’s wrist. The call ended, silence thick with menace.

A hard knock thudded at the door, sharp and unyielding.