Chapter 7 - The Eve of Reckoning
Friday afternoon crawled by with agonizing tension.
At the estate, Serena spent the afternoon packing designer suitcases, believing she was preparing for a romantic escape to Italy. In reality, she was preparing to disappear the moment Marco confirmed Dominic’s death at the warehouse.
At 7:00 p.m., Dominic entered the master bedroom.
Serena was standing by the vanity, applying perfume. On the nightstand sat a glass of aged single-malt scotch—Dominic’s favorite.
“A little something to take the edge off before your warehouse meeting, darling,” Serena purred, turning around with a sultry smile. “You’ve been working so hard.”
Dominic walked over to the nightstand, picked up the crystal tumbler, and swirled the amber liquid. His keen senses caught the faintest chemical tang beneath the peat and oak—a colorless, tasteless sedative designed to slow reflexes and dull cognitive response.
“Join me?” he asked smoothly.
“You know scotch gives me a headache, darling. I have my wine downstairs.”
Dominic nodded, holding her gaze. “To family, Serena. And to getting exactly what we deserve.”
“To getting what we deserve,” she echoed softly.
Dominic raised the glass to his lips, but as he did, he deliberately dropped his car keys onto the plush carpet.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
Serena instinctively looked down toward the floor. In that split-second distraction, Dominic tipped the glass into the potted fern beside the vanity and pressed the empty rim to his mouth, swallowing loudly.
“Delicious,” he said, setting the empty glass down. “I’m heading out to the harbor now. Stay here. Wait for my call.”
“Be careful, Dominic,” she murmured, her eyes glittering with dark anticipation. “Wear your heavy coat. The docks get terribly cold at night.”
“I’m prepared for the cold,” he replied.
He turned and walked out of the bedroom, his stride purposeful.
Instead of heading straight to the docks, Dominic made one final stop. He drove to the secure safehouse annex where Emily and Rose were waiting under protective custody.
When he walked into the sitting room, Rose was sitting on the carpet, coloring a fresh sheet of paper. When she saw him, she scrambled to her feet and barreled into his legs.
“Uncle Dominic!”
Dominic knelt down, catching her in a warm embrace. “Hey there, little mouse.”
Rose held up her paper. It was a drawing of three figures holding hands outside a large house surrounded by sunshine and flowers. One was tall in a dark suit; one was a woman with brown hair; one was a little girl with curls.
“This is you, this is Mommy, and this is me,” Rose announced proudly. “For good luck tonight so the bad people don't scare you.”
Dominic took the drawing with hands that trembled slightly. He carefully folded it and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, right over his heart.
“This is the best armor I’ve ever had, Rose,” he said softly.
He stood up and looked at me.
I was standing near the fireplace, my hands clasped tightly, watching him with an emotion I could no longer conceal. The aristocratic mafia boss who had intimidated me on my first day had become the man who had risked his life to shield my child.
Dominic walked over to me. Without a word, he reached out and took both of my hands in his.
“You shouldn't be here,” I whispered, looking into his gray eyes. “You should be focusing on tonight.”
“I came here because looking at you is the only thing that reminds me what I’m fighting for, Emily,” Dominic said, his deep voice thick with raw honesty. “For twenty years, my life was about revenge, power, and surviving in the shadows. But standing in this room... I realized I want something else. I want a tomorrow.”
Tears welled in my eyes. I squeezed his hands tightly. “Then you come back alive, Dominic Vitali. Do you hear me? You come back to us.”
Dominic smiled—a genuine, beautiful smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
“I will,” he promised.
He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.
May you like
Then he turned, pulled on his overcoat, and walked into the stormy Chicago night.
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