Chapter 3 - Secrets in the Cellar
Within twenty minutes, the grand estate had transitioned from an opulent party venue into a fortified bunker. Rain lashed against the towering leaded-glass windows, blurring the lights of Boston in the distance. Armed guards in tailored charcoal suits stood watch at every corridor corner, their submachine guns resting discreetly against tactical vests.
Dominic led me down the private service stairs into the lower levels of the manor. Unlike the gilded excess of the ballroom, the basement was constructed of reinforced concrete and historic Boston red brick—a remnant of the bootlegging tunnels his family had utilized nearly a century ago.
"You're not safe in the main quarters," Dominic said, his heavy leather shoes echoing against the stone floor. "If the Vance family realizes you’ve been discovered, they’ll activate whoever they have embedded in my security detail."
"I’ve survived ten years on the streets without a mafia prince holding my hand," I countered, though my breath hitched slightly as I tried to keep pace with his long strides.
Dominic stopped abruptly and turned, catching me by the elbow before I collided with his chest. His grip was firm, warm, and surprisingly gentle.
"You survived by hiding in plain sight," he said, looking down at me with unyielding intensity. "You put on weight to change your silhouette. You chopped your hair, dyed it dark brown, and worked manual labor so your hands would callus. It was brilliant. But hiding is over, Elena. The moment Cassandra touched you with that crop, the clock started ticking."
"Why do you care?" I pulled my arm back, guarding myself. "Ten years ago, the Sterlings and the Morettis were rivals. If your father were alive, he would have handed me to the Vances on a silver platter to keep the peace."
"My father was a coward who died in a prison hospital," Dominic said bluntly. "And you don't know the whole story."
He unlocked a heavy steel-reinforced door, revealing an expansive, climate-controlled archive room. Walls were lined with steel shelves containing decades of syndicate ledgers, surveillance photographs, and black-market shipping contracts.
Dominic walked to a central table and slid open a hidden compartment beneath the oak surface. From it, he pulled out a leather-bound journal tied with a frayed silk ribbon.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked.
I stared at the faded silver monogram on the leather: *M.S.*
"Maria Sterling," I breathed. "Your mother."
"When my father tried to have her murdered to marry an oil baron's daughter, it wasn't the Sterling guards who saved her," Dominic said softly. "It was your father, Don Vincent Moretti. He gave her safe passage out of the country. He gave her enough money to raise me in secret until I was old enough to reclaim my birthright."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back savagely. "My father never mentioned it."
"Of course he didn't. Honor isn't something men like Vincent Moretti bragged about. But he gave my mother that identical locket you wear around your neck. It was a promise: if the Morettis ever fell, the Sterlings owed a blood debt of sanctuary." Dominic stepped toward me, his presence overwhelming. "I don't care what Cassandra Vance planned. I don't care what her father wants. You are under my roof, Elena. And anyone who raises a hand against you will answer to me with their life."
Before I could process his words, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, and died.
Emergency red backup lights clicked on instantly, bathing the concrete corridor in a sinister crimson glow. From the top of the stairwell, the muffled sound of suppressed gunfire rippled through the concrete floor.
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"They're inside," Dominic whispered, drawing a customized matte-black SIG Sauer from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed. "Cassandra didn't come alone."
***
