Chapter 3 - The Shadow on the Wall
By eight o’clock that evening, the storm had turned into a full-blown gale. High winds howled through the slate roofs of the Long Island estate, rattling the leaded glass windows and sending heavy tree branches scraping against the stone walls of the east wing.
Inside Leo’s bedroom, the atmosphere was warm and calm.
The five-year-old sat cross-legged on his plush rug, wearing dinosaur pajamas, meticulously arranging a fleet of wooden trains. Bea sat beside him on the floor, her cardigans finally discarded in the warmth of the room, leaving her in a simple gray cotton t-shirt and dark jeans. Her dark curls were pinned up haphazardly with a wooden clip, a few stray tendrils framing her soft face.
“Bea?” Leo whispered, looking up from his tracks.
“Hmm?” She looked down from the book she had been skimming.
“Is Daddy angry tonight?”
Bea paused, resting the book on her knee. “Why do you ask that, sweet boy?”
“He was standing in the hallway outside my room for a really long time,” Leo said, his big brown eyes—so much like his father’s—looking toward the cracked bedroom door. “He didn't come in. He just watched us.”
Bea’s stomach took a familiar, dizzying dip. She had felt those eyes on her all evening. During dinner in the breakfast nook, every time she set down a plate or poured water into his glass, Dominic’s gaze had followed her every movement. He hadn't spoken much, but his presence had filled the room like an overwhelming physical force.
“Your daddy isn't angry, Leo,” Bea said gently, reaching out to smooth down a lock of the boy’s dark hair. “He’s just busy. He has a lot of big, important things to think about.”
“He looks at you like he looks at his favorite paintings,” Leo said casually, picking up a red engine and pushing it along the wooden track. “The ones in his study that no one is allowed to touch.”
Bea blushed furiously, her cheeks burning. “Leo, don't say silliness.”
“It’s true!” Leo insisted, looking up with a grin. “He doesn't smile at Mrs. Bell. He doesn't smile at Uncle Frankie when he comes over with the big black cars. But he smiled when you brought him his coffee this morning.”
Before Bea could construct a coherent reply to a five-year-old’s dangerously accurate observation, the bedroom door swung open quietly.
Dominic stood in the doorway.
He had changed out of his suit into a heavy charcoal sweater and dark trousers. His sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, revealing thick, corded muscle and a dark, intricate tattoo of a crest wrapping around his right wrist—the mark of the Russo syndicate, though Bea didn't know the full lethal weight of what it meant.
Leo scrambled to his feet instantly. “Daddy!”
Dominic caught his son as the boy threw himself forward, lifting him effortlessly with one arm. The hard, dangerous lines of Dominic’s face softened completely as he pressed a kiss against Leo’s hair.
“Time for bed, kiddo,” Dominic said softly. “The storm is getting worse, and you’ve got school tomorrow.”
“Can Bea read the story about the dragon?” Leo pleaded, wrapping his small arms around his father’s neck. “Please?”
Dominic’s eyes shifted over Leo’s shoulder, locking onto Bea, who was still sitting on the rug. Her heart did a strange, fluttering flip as his gaze swept over her simple t-shirt and the bare curve of her throat.
“Bea has worked a long day, Leo,” Dominic said, his voice deep and smooth. “She needs to rest.”
“I don't mind, Mr. Russo,” Bea said quickly, starting to push herself up from the floor. “Really, I can stay until he falls asleep.”
“No,” Dominic said, his voice firm as he set Leo down on the mattress and pulled the thick duvet over his shoulders. “You’ve been on your feet since six in the morning. Go downstairs, get something to eat, and go to sleep.”
It wasn't a suggestion; it was a quiet command disguised as care.
Bea hesitated, then smiled softly at Leo. “Goodnight, sweet boy. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Goodnight, Bea!” Leo called out, snuggling into his pillows.
Bea slipped out of the room, her soft shoes making no sound against the thick hallway carpet. But as she reached the top of the grand staircase, she heard quiet, heavy footsteps behind her.
She turned. Dominic was following her down the hall, his dark eyes fixed on her back.
“Beatrice,” he called out softly.
She stopped near the arched stained-glass window at the landing. The moonlight filtered through the blue and gold glass, casting long, dramatic shadows across the polished wood floor.
“Yes, Mr. Russo?”
He stopped two feet away from her. The height difference between them was striking; at five-foot-four, Bea had to tilt her head back significantly to meet his eyes.
“My brother Frankie is coming to the house tomorrow night,” Dominic said, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets. “There will be a private dinner in the main dining room. Twelve men. High-level associates.”
Bea nodded automatically. “I’ll make sure the extra silver is polished and help Mary set the table.”
“No,” Dominic said smoothly. “You won't be serving tomorrow night.”
Bea blinked, confused. “I won't? Did I do something wrong during dinner?”
Dominic let out a low, rough breath, stepping one inch closer. The shadow he cast enveloped her completely.
“Frankie and the men he brings with him are not like the staff in this house, Beatrice,” Dominic said, his voice darkening with an ominous edge. “They are loud, crude, and they look at beautiful things as if they have a right to take them.”
Bea’s breath hitched in her throat. Beautiful things.
“I don't want you anywhere near that dining room tomorrow night,” Dominic continued, his gaze holding hers with unyielding possessiveness. “You will stay in the nursery wing with Leo. You will lock the door from the inside. And if any man who isn't me so much as knocks on that door, you call my personal cell immediately.”
Bea stared at him, her chest heaving slightly beneath her shirt. The raw, protective instinct rolling off him was terrifying, yet a tiny, hidden part of her—the part that had felt invisible and unprotected her entire life—thrilled at the sound of it.
“Dominic...” she whispered, his name slipping out before she could catch herself.
May you like
A slow, dangerous dark fire lit up in his eyes at the sound of his name on her lips.
“Goodnight, Beatrice,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against her arm so lightly it felt like a ghost of a touch before he turned and walked back toward his study, leaving her standing in the moonlight, trembling from the inside out.
