Chapter 5
By midnight, the mansion was locked down tighter than a federal penitentiary
. Heavy steel shutters dropped over the ground-floor windows, motion sensors hummed along the perimeter fence, and armed guards patrolled the corridors in rotation.
I couldn't sleep.
The image of Santoro’s cold eyes and Dominic’s drawn gun kept playing on a loop behind my eyelids. I padded softly down the carpeted hallway toward the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, wrapping my cardigan tighter around my shoulders against the midnight chill.
As I passed the study, I noticed a sliver of warm light spilling out from beneath the half-open door.
Dominic was still awake.
I paused, hesitating, before gently pushing the door open. Dominic was standing by the tall arched window, looking out over the moonlit gardens, a glass of amber bourbon clutched in his hand. He had discarded his suit jacket and vest, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp, clean lines of his throat and chest.
"You should be in bed, Clara," he said without turning around, his voice low and weary.
"I could say the same to you," I replied softly, stepping into the room. "The guards are outside. You don't have to stand watch every second of the night."
Dominic turned slowly, taking a sip of his drink before setting the crystal glass down on the edge of his desk. He walked toward me, his movements fluid and predatory, yet strangely hesitant.
"When you live my life, Clara, you learn that sleep is just an invitation for your past to catch up with you," Dominic said, stopping just a foot away from me. The scent of cedarwood, scotch, and rain enveloped me. "My wife sat in this exact room the night before she was killed. She told me we needed to walk away from the syndicate. I told her we couldn't. Two days later, they ambushed our car."
His voice cracked slightly—just a fraction—on the last word. It was the first time he had spoken of Elena’s death with anything other than cold, calculated vengeance.
"You blame yourself," I said quietly.
"I bought the guns that built this empire," Dominic replied, looking down at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "I invited the wolves into the yard. And because of my arrogance, my daughters lost their mother before they even learned how to spell the word."
Without thinking, I reached out. My hand brushed against his forearm, feeling the tight, coiled tension in his muscles beneath the cotton shirt. Dominic flinched slightly at the touch, then slowly turned his hand, his long fingers wrapping gently around my wrist.
"You survived, Dominic," I whispered, looking up into his storm-grey eyes. "And you kept your girls alive in a house built for ghosts. That doesn't make you a monster. It makes you a father who didn't know how to grieve."
Dominic’s breath hitched. His thumb stroked softly against the inside of my wrist, sending a jolt of electricity straight up my arm.
"Clara..." he murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, low hum.
May you like
He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, his other hand came up, cupping the side of my face with a tenderness that contradicted every violent thing I knew about him. His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, tracing the line of my jaw before his head lowered slowly.
When his lips met mine, it wasn't a gentle greeting. It was the collision of two different worlds—the dark, brutal underworld he ruled and the quiet, surviving spirit I carried. It was desperate, fierce, and entirely consuming.
