[COMPLETED] The Wrong Door Led Me Into Chicago's Most Dangerous Family

Ten minutes after I caught my fiancé kissing my best friend, I stopped believing the worst thing that could happen to me was heartbreak.

Dominic leaned toward me in the locked room behind the nightclub and asked, “What’s his name?”

My throat tightened. “Caleb Mercer.”

Every man around the mahogany table changed at once.

No one shouted. That was what frightened me. The guard nearest the door simply looked at Dominic, another man quietly closed the open briefcase of cash, and a third reached inside his jacket.

Dominic’s hand lifted, stopping them.

“Mercer,” he repeated. “What does he do?”

“He works in private finance. Corporate restructuring, acquisitions, whatever people with expensive watches call moving money around.” I gave a broken laugh. “Why?”

Dominic ignored the question. “How long have you been engaged?”

“Three years.”

“And Chloe?”

I stared at him. “How do you know her name?”

“I don’t.” His gaze sharpened. “You said your best friend. I’m asking who she is.”

I hated that relief flickered through me.

“Chloe Bennett. We’ve been friends since college.”

Dominic stood and crossed to a narrow cabinet built into the wall. He unlocked it, removed a thin folder, and slid a photograph onto the table.

My stomach dropped.

Caleb stood outside a warehouse beside the Chicago River, his profile unmistakable. The timestamp in the corner was from six weeks earlier. Across from him was a gray-haired man in a camel coat.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Victor Salerno.”

The name meant nothing to me, but everyone else in the room treated it like a lit match.

Dominic sat again. “Did Caleb ever mention Salerno?”

“No.”

“Did he mention River North Storage, Bellamy Restoration, or a property on West Fulton?”

Bellamy made my heart stumble.

“That was my father’s company.”

Dominic’s expression went still.

My father, Thomas Bellamy, had died four years earlier after what police called a hit-and-run. His small restoration business had been dissolved, except for one old warehouse he left to me because no buyer wanted to deal with its liens and zoning problems.

Caleb had offered to “clean up the paperwork” after our wedding.

A cold thread slid down my spine.

“Why are you asking about my father?”

Dominic did not answer immediately. He looked toward the man on his right, a broad-shouldered lieutenant named Marco whose face had remained unreadable through all of this.

“Get Mercer and Bennett separated,” Dominic said. “No scene. I want to know who they leave with.”

Marco nodded and left through a second door I had not noticed.

I stood so fast the chair scraped behind me. “No. I’m leaving.”

Dominic rose too.

“I came here because my fiancé cheated on me. Whatever this is, it has nothing to do with me.”

“That would be convenient.”

“Convenient?” My grief finally found anger. “You locked me in a room with armed men and blood on the table.”

“The blood is from one of mine who was attacked forty minutes ago.” His tone stayed calm. “And your fiancé was photographed meeting the man responsible.”

The room seemed to tilt.

I reached for my phone. The screen was cracked but alive. Twelve missed calls from Caleb. Four from Chloe.

Then a new message appeared.

Caleb: Where are you? Please don’t leave. We need to talk before you do something stupid.

Before I could decide whether to laugh or cry, another message arrived from an unknown number.

DO NOT GO HOME.

A photo loaded beneath it.

It showed the front of my apartment building.

Taken tonight.

My breath stopped.

Dominic took the phone from my shaking hand, studied the image, and handed it to the guard beside him.

“Trace what you can.”