Chapter 4 - Blood on the Gates
I couldn't stay in the room.
The house was eerie in its quietness. Noah was fast asleep in his bedroom down the hall, exhausted from the chaotic day. Margaret had taken her evening medication and retired early.
By 10:00 PM, the rain began to fall against the tall arched windows of the estate—a heavy, freezing rain that beat against the glass like iron nails.
I walked quietly down the grand marble staircase of the main foyer.
The house was dim, lit only by low warm wall sconces. I made my way toward the high arched windows of the library, which overlooked the sweeping cobblestone driveway and the massive iron gates at the south entrance.
Parked near the gates were three large black SUVs, their headlights cutting bright white beams through the falling rain.
Standing near the fountain, completely unbothered by the downpour, was Dominic.
He wore a long dark trench coat, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. Standing behind him were six of his guards, including Frank, their hands resting under their suit jackets.
Facing Dominic was a short, stocky man in a slick leather jacket—Lorenzo Moretti, a notorious underboss who controlled the river docks on the North Side.
"You took away my permits, DeLuca!" Lorenzo screamed over the sound of the rain, waving his hand wildly toward Dominic’s face. "The Whitmore family has funded my docks for ten years! You ruined their shipping lines overnight because of a goddamn waitress!"
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't even shift his weight.
"You are standing on my grass, Lorenzo," Dominic said, his voice carrying clearly across the wet courtyard through the heavy rain. "And you are raising your voice near my mother’s bedroom."
"I don't give a damn about your mother!" Lorenzo roared, taking an aggressive step forward, pulling a heavy silver revolver from his waistband. "You're getting old, Dominic! You're letting sentimentality ruin business! A waitress touches a Whitmore, and you shut down three docks?!"
Before Lorenzo could raise the barrel of the gun, Dominic moved.
It was a movement so fast, so unnervingly precise, that my breath caught in my throat.
Dominic closed the five-foot distance between them in a heartbeat. He grabbed Lorenzo’s wrist, twisted it sideways with a horrific sound of snapping bone, and disarmed the man before the gun could hit the wet cobblestones.
Lorenzo shrieked in pain, falling to his knees in the mud.
Dominic didn't stop. He grabbed Lorenzo by the hair, hauling him up, and slammed his face against the cold hood of the nearest SUV.
"Listen to me, Lorenzo," Dominic growled, his voice a dark, terrifying whisper that echoed across the courtyard. "If you ever come to my gates again... if you ever speak the word 'waitress' in reference to Grace Miller again... I will not shut down your docks. I will bury you under them."
He shoved Lorenzo backward into the arms of his terrified henchmen.
"Get him off my property, Frank," Dominic ordered coldly, wiping his wet hands with a white handkerchief he pulled from his coat. "And burn that car. It touched my driveway."
"Yes, Don DeLuca," Frank replied instantly.
The SUVs reversed frantically, their tires squealing against the wet asphalt as they fled through the gates.
I stood frozen behind the glass of the library window, my heart hammering like a drum.
Dominic turned back toward the house.
As he walked up the stone steps toward the main entrance, his eyes drifted toward the second-floor library window.
Through the rain and the glass, his cold, dark gaze locked directly onto mine.
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He didn't look angry that I had watched him. He looked sad. A deep, ancient, tragic shadow passed over his features as he stared up at me standing in the light.
Then, he pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped into the house.
