Chapter 2 - The Art of Restoration
The silence in the drawing room stretched long and thin, broken only by the steady dripping of rain against the windowpanes. Dominic gestured with a single jerk of his chin, and Leo immediately stepped forward with two men. They cut Vivien’s makeshift silk restraints and dragged her to her feet. The violent heiress didn't kick or scream; she kept her chin tucked into her chest, refusing to make eye contact with Norah as they hauled her out toward the waiting cars.
Dominic waited until the heavy front doors slammed shut downstairs before he stepped fully into the room. He walked past the shattered glass, stopping right in front of his wife’s chair.
Norah didn't look up immediately. She was carefully inspecting her right hand, testing the mobility of her scraped knuckles. There was a smear of dark blood near her hairline, but it wasn't hers.
"You're bleeding," Dominic said quietly, holstering his weapon.
"It's Vivien's," Norah replied softly. She finally looked up at him, her dark eyes entirely clear, without a single trace of shock or hysteria. "She broke the front door glass, punched Beatrice, and told me she was going to cut my throat to send you a message."
Dominic knelt down in front of her, taking her injured hand in his broad, calloused palms. He expected her to flinch—she always flinched when things were loud or sudden—but her hand remained perfectly still in his grasp.
"Norah," he began, his voice laced with a dangerous mixture of confusion and anger. "Vivien Vance was trained by Russian mercenaries. She’s killed three men that I know of. How did you put her on the floor with a curtain tie and a fireplace poker?"
Norah offered a faint, melancholy smile—a shadow of the gentle expression he had seen every morning for four years. "You think art restoration is just painting pretty flowers over old canvases, Dominic?"
She used her clean hand to gently pull away his grip, standing up slowly. She walked over to the overturned coffee table, reached down, and picked up a heavy bronze statuette that had been used as a paperweight.
"Restoration is about leverage," she said, turning the bronze object in her hands. "It's about knowing exactly where a structure is weak, where the cracks are hidden beneath the varnish, and applying just enough precise pressure to break away the damaged layers without destroying the frame."
She looked at him over her shoulder. "Vivien was wild. She fought with emotion and anger. People who fight with anger leave their throat, their knees, and their balance completely unguarded."
Dominic stood up slowly, his mind racing. "Where did you learn how to fight like that?"
Norah didn't answer right away. She walked to the window, watching the red tail lights of his security fleet disappear down the long, winding driveway. "When you met me four years ago, you thought I was a orphan from a quiet family of antique dealers in Boston. You thought I was fragile because I didn't talk about my past."
"Weren't you?" Dominic asked.
Norah turned around. The rain hit the glass behind her, framing her torn white dress in a halo of gray light.
"My father wasn't an antique dealer, Dominic. His name was Arthur Vance."
Dominic felt the air leave his lungs as if he had taken a physical blow to the chest.
Arthur Vance had been the legendary, brutal founder of the Vance syndicate—a man whose cruelty made his daughter Vivien look like an amateur. Arthur had been assassinated seven years ago during a bloody internal coup, a massacre that was supposed to have wiped out his entire bloodline, leaving only Vivien to claim his throne.
"Arthur Vance had two daughters," Dominic whispered, the pieces falling into place with terrifying speed. "The public only knew about Vivien because she was the one he paraded around."
"Vivien was the loud one. The favorite," Norah corrected smoothly. "I was the hidden one. The daughter he kept in the shadows, trained in the dark, and prepared as a backup plan. When the coup happened, Vivien fled to Europe. I buried my name, altered my records, and disappeared into the world of fine art."
Dominic stepped closer to her, his gaze intense. "You’re Vivien’s older sister."
"Half-sister," Norah said coldly. "And today, she didn't come here to threaten your wife, Dominic. She came here because she finally tracked down her sister. She wanted the encrypted key to our father’s offshore accounts—the ones she thinks I stole from her seven years ago."
Dominic reached out, taking her by the shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me? When I met you, when we married—why lie to me?"
"Because you are a mob boss, Dominic," Norah said softly, placing a cold hand against his cheek. "If you knew who I was, you would have used me as a bargaining chip against the Vance family. You would have seen me as a weapon, or a target, or a piece of territory. I wanted a quiet life. I wanted a husband who would protect me so I would never have to use the skills my father beat into me ever again."
She leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his chest. Her small frame suddenly felt fragile again, but Dominic knew better now. The illusion was shattered.
"I loved being your quiet wife, Dominic," she whispered into his coat. "I really did. But Vivien ruined that today."
Dominic wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly against him while his brain fired at maximum speed. His quiet, timid wife was the rightful heir to the largest criminal empire on the East Coast. If the syndicate bosses found out who she really was, it wouldn't just trigger a turf war—it would ignite an inferno that could consume the entire city.
"What do we do with Vivien?" Dominic asked quietly into her hair.
May you like
Norah pulled back slightly, her dark eyes locking onto his with an icy, calculated focus that made his blood run cold.
"Vivien knows I'm alive now," Norah said flatly. "Which means by tomorrow morning, the entire Vance syndicate will know. We don't hide anymore, Dominic. We take my father's throne."
