CHAPTER 7 — MY FATHER TOLD ME NOT TO TRUST HIM
The line went dead.
I stood frozen beside the hospital bed.
My father’s voice was still echoing inside my head.
Don’t trust Dominic.
For eight years, I had dreamed about hearing that voice again.
Now that I finally did—
I wished I hadn’t.
Dominic stood across the room, perfectly still.
His face had changed.
Not dramatically.
A stranger probably wouldn’t have noticed.
But I did.
His jaw was tighter.
His eyes had gone darker.
And for the first time since I met him, the billionaire who seemed impossible to intimidate looked genuinely shaken.
I stared at him.
“You heard him.”
Dominic didn’t answer.
“You heard my father.”
“Yes.”
“Then explain.”
His eyes met mine.
“There are things I should have told you.”
My stomach tightened.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
He stepped toward me.
I stepped back.
He stopped immediately.
That mattered.
Even now.
He respected the distance.
“Your father and mine were investigating the same organization,” Dominic said quietly.
“I know.”
“They believed the organization had people inside law enforcement, hospitals, banks, and government offices.”
“I know.”
“They also believed someone inside my father’s organization was feeding information to the enemy.”
I stared at him.
“The traitor.”
Dominic nodded.
“And you think that person is still alive?”
“I know that person is still alive.”
A chill moved through me.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to believe what the evidence says.”
He reached into his jacket.
I tensed.
He slowly pulled out a thin black folder and placed it on the table.
“I started investigating your father six years ago.”
I looked at the folder.
“Why?”
“Because my father disappeared.”
My eyes narrowed.
“You thought Michael knew what happened to him.”
“Yes.”
“And you never found him.”
“No.”
“Until now.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Until someone wanted us to think we found him.”
That sentence stopped me.
“What do you mean?”
“The call.”
He pointed toward my phone.
“Anyone can imitate a voice.”
My heart dropped.
“You think that wasn't my father?”
“I think your father was too careful to expose himself through an unsecured phone call.”
I wanted to reject it.
I wanted to believe that voice was real.
Because after eight years of grief, even a few seconds of my father speaking had felt like oxygen.
But Dominic was right.
My father had always been careful.
He taught me never to leave a paper trail.
Never to trust strangers.
Never to tell anyone where we were going.
And when I was seventeen, he gave me the black key.
Keep this.
Never lose it.
And if someone ever asks for it, run.
I looked down at the key hanging from the chain around my neck.
Dominic noticed.
“The key.”
“Yes.”
“We need to find what it opens.”
“You said you recognized the symbol.”
“I recognized the M.”
“But you don't know what it opens?”
“No.”
I watched him carefully.
“Then let's find out.”
Two hours later, we were inside Dominic’s private office beneath the Moretti building.
There were no windows.
No cameras.
No phones.
Only a massive steel table, several monitors, and walls covered with photographs.
Some were recent.
Others were eight years old.
I walked toward one wall.
And stopped.
My father was there.
Michael Carter.
Standing beside Anthony Moretti.
And between them—
a younger Dominic.
He looked about nineteen.
Angry.
Confused.
Almost exactly the way I felt now.
I touched the photograph.
“What was my father doing with you?”
Dominic came closer.
“My father trusted yours.”
“Why?”
“Because Michael was one of the few men who couldn't be bought.”
I looked at him.
“Then why did everyone say he was just a maintenance supervisor?”
“Because that's what the people behind his death wanted everyone to believe.”
Dominic opened another file.
Inside was a list of companies.
Northstar Industrial.
Whitmore Holdings.
Mercer Logistics.
Three private security firms.
Two medical suppliers.
A shipping company.
And dozens of smaller corporations.
My blood ran cold.
“What's this?”
“Shell companies.”
“For what?”
“Moving money.”
“How much?”
Dominic looked at me.
“Four hundred and eighty million dollars.”
The number hit me like a punch.
The same amount from my mother's medical account.
The same amount connected to my father's secret.
I swallowed.
“So the money wasn't stolen.”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
Dominic leaned against the table.
“Protection.”
“Protection for who?”
“People who needed things disappeared.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“Witnesses. Victims. Employees. Investigators. Anyone who knew too much.”
My hands curled into fists.
“And my father found them.”
“Yes.”
“And your father helped him.”
“Yes.”
“Then someone killed them.”
Dominic didn't answer.
That silence was enough.
I turned away.
“Why would my father tell me not to trust you?”
Dominic remained silent for several seconds.
Then he said something I wasn't expecting.
“Because he may have had a reason.”
I turned.
“What?”
“If Michael is alive, he may believe I betrayed him.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Too instantly.
I stepped closer.
“Then what happened eight years ago?”
Dominic looked at the photograph of his father.
“My father ordered me to stay home that night.”
“Why?”
“He said he was meeting Michael.”
“At Northstar.”
“Yes.”
“And you obeyed.”
“I was nineteen.”
His voice became colder.
“I didn't know I was saying goodbye to him.”
I studied his face.
For the first time, I saw something underneath all that control.
Regret.
Real regret.
“What happened afterward?”
“My father never came home.”
“And Michael?”
“Officially dead.”
“But you never believed it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Dominic looked at me.
“Because my father called me at 2:13 a.m.”
I froze.
“What did he say?”
“Three words.”
“What words?”
Dominic's voice dropped.
“Trust no one.”
My heart stopped.
The same warning.
The same message.
Different man.
Same night.
Then one of the monitors suddenly flashed red.
Dominic turned.
A security alert appeared.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS — ARCHIVE LEVEL
His expression changed instantly.
“Someone is inside.”
“Where?”
“The old Moretti archive.”
“Can we stop them?”
“No.”
He grabbed his coat.
“We're going.”
The archive was beneath an abandoned Moretti-owned bank in downtown Chicago.
By the time we arrived, the building was empty.
Too empty.
Dominic raised one hand.
His men spread out.
I stayed beside him.
“You should stay behind me,” he whispered.
“No.”
“Avery.”
“I've already been attacked three times.”
“That isn't a reason to volunteer for a fourth.”
I almost smiled.
“I'm not volunteering.”
A metallic click echoed in the darkness.
I grabbed Dominic's arm.
“Left.”
He turned.
A shadow moved behind a pillar.
Two men rushed us.
The first came straight at Dominic.
The second came for me.
He was bigger.
He expected fear.
Instead, muscle memory took over.
I stepped aside.
Caught his wrist.
Rotated.
He dropped hard.
The second man reached for his weapon.
I kicked it away.
Dominic finished the other attacker.
Silence returned.
One of the men was unconscious.
The other was bleeding from his lip.
Dominic crouched beside him.
“Who sent you?”
The man laughed.
“You're too late.”
“Where's the file?”
The man looked at me.
His smile disappeared.
“The Carter girl.”
My blood went cold.
Dominic grabbed his collar.
“What about her?”
The man whispered:
“She isn't supposed to survive.”
Then he bit down.
Dominic immediately pulled him back.
Too late.
The man convulsed.
Dead.
I stared.
Dominic stood.
“They're getting desperate.”
“No.”
I looked toward the archive door.
“They're getting scared.”
We entered.
Rows of old files stretched into darkness.
At the very end was a single steel cabinet.
It had been opened.
Inside was one empty envelope.
Stamped with a black circle.
And beneath it—
a handwritten note.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My father's.
My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
Only one sentence was written.
AVERY — IF YOU FOUND THIS, THEN DOMINIC HAS FINALLY BROKEN THE RULE I GAVE HIM.
I looked at Dominic.
“What rule?”
His face went pale.
“I don't know.”
I read the next line.
HE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO TELL YOU ABOUT THE NIGHT YOUR FATHER DIED.
I looked up.
Dominic was staring at the paper.
Then he whispered:
“My father told me something that night.”
“What?”
Dominic's eyes met mine.
“He told me your father wasn't the one who was supposed to die.”
A cold silence filled the room.
“Then who was?”
Dominic didn't answer.
Because behind us—
a light turned on.
And a voice spoke from the darkness.
“Me.”
I spun around.
And saw Vanessa Whitmore standing at the end of the corridor.
May you like
She was holding a gun.
And she was smiling.
