Chapter 4
Before Santoro’s boot could touch the bottom step, a gunshot echoed through the high-domed foyer
.
It didn't hit Santoro; the bullet slammed directly into the polished marble tile two inches in front of his Italian-leather shoes, sending white shards flying across the floor.
Santoro froze, his face draining of color.
Dominic stood ten feet away, his SIG Sauer leveled with absolute, terrifying precision directly at the center of Santoro’s forehead. His hand was as steady as if he were holding a pen.
"Take another step toward those stairs, Vincent," Dominic whispered, his voice carrying the terrifying promise of a slow and brutal execution, "and the next bullet won't miss the tile."
The four enforcers behind Santoro scrambled, their hands hovering over their holsters, unsure whether to draw or surrender. The tension in the grand foyer was thick enough to choke on.
"You've gone soft, Russo," Santoro hissed, his voice trembling despite his bravado as he slowly backed toward the open front doors. "The commission won't let this slide. A man who cares more about a nanny than his empire is a dead man walking."
"Get out of my house," Dominic replied, his voice flat and dead.
Within seconds, Santoro and his men vanished into the night, the roar of their twin-turbo sedans echoing down the private drive.
Silence rushed back into the mansion, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of before. It was the vibrating, charged silence of a war declaration.
I hurried down the stairs, my heart pounding against my ribs, stopping a few feet away from Dominic. He was still standing motionless, staring at the bullet hole in the marble floor, his chest rising and falling beneath his vest.
"Are you alright?" I asked quietly.
Dominic slowly lowered his gun, sliding it back into its holster. He turned his head, his slate-grey eyes meeting mine in the dim light of the crystal chandelier. There was no cold billionaire facade left; there was only the raw, exposed nerve of a man who realized his enemies had just found his true weakness.
"They know about you, Clara," Dominic said, his voice rough.
"They know the agency sent a cleaner?"
"They know a woman walked into this house and brought my daughters back to life," Dominic corrected, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off him. "In my world, love is a currency, and yours just made you a target. Santoro will be back. And next time, he won't come to talk."
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"Then it's a good thing," I whispered, holding my ground, "that I'm not planning on going anywhere."
Dominic stared at me for a long, intense moment, his hand rising slowly as if he meant to touch my cheek, before pulling back at the last second as if remembering who he was.
