Chapter 9 - The Trial of Blood
The silence that followed Dominic’s roar was deafening.
Bea stared at him, her breath hitching, her mouth slightly open as the words echoed through her mind. In love with you.
Dominic stood over her, his breathing heavy, his hands trembling against her face. He had never admitted those words to another human being—not even to his late wife. The raw vulnerability on his face was terrifying, exposing the wounded, fiercely protective man beneath the mafia king’s crown.
“I didn't plan this, Beatrice,” Dominic whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he looked into her wide, tear-filled eyes. “I wanted to protect you from my world. But from the moment I saw you dancing in my kitchen... I knew I was never going to let you go.”
Before Bea could process the overwhelming confession, a sharp, concussive explosion rocked the foundation of the mansion.
BOOM!
The glass windows of the suite shattered inward, spraying shards across the rug. The lights flickered and died, plunging the second floor into darkness.
Sirens began to wail across the grounds, followed by the rapid, terrifying crack of automatic gunfire erupting from the front lawn.
Dominic’s protective instincts took over instantly. He threw his body over Bea, tackling her to the floor and covering her with his frame as bullets ripped through the outer walls of the room.
“Dominic!” she screamed, holding onto his shoulders in absolute terror.
“Stay down!” Dominic commanded, pulling a concealed Glock from his waistband—he was never truly unarmed.
The master bedroom door slammed open. Frankie’s voice echoed down the corridor, backed by the heavy boots of a dozen armed mercenaries.
“Dominic!” Frankie’s voice boomed through the dark hallway. “The board meeting came early, brother! I’m taking the estate tonight!”
Frankie hadn't waited for the charter deadline. Realizing Dominic would never give up Bea or the company, he had launched a full-scale armed assault on his brother’s home, backed by rogue elements of the syndicate.
Dominic looked down at Bea in the dim moonlight filtering through the broken window.
“Leo,” Bea choked out, tears of sheer terror filling her eyes. “Dominic... Leo is in his room!”
Dominic’s face turned into a terrifying mask of iron. He pulled Bea up into a low crouch, thrusting a small spare hand-gun into her hands—a light snub-nosed revolver he pulled from his ankle holster.
“Can you use this?” he asked, his voice dead calm amidst the chaos outside.
“I... I don't know!” she sobbed.
“Point it at the door. Squeeze the trigger if anyone who isn't me steps through,” Dominic ordered, kissing her hard and fast on the lips. “I am going to get our son. Stay behind the overturned bed.”
He didn't wait for her reply. Dominic rolled out into the hallway into a hail of gunfire.
Bea scrambled behind the heavy mahogany bed, clutching the heavy metal revolver in her trembling hands. Outside, the hallway erupted into a warzone. The sharp, terrifying bang-bang-bang of Dominic’s pistol echoed through the house, mixed with the screams of Frankie’s men as Dominic swept through his home like a vengeful demon.
For five agonizing minutes, Bea hid behind the bed, listening to the carnage.
Then, heavy footsteps approached the doorway of her suite.
A figure stepped through the shattered frame, outlined by the moonlight. It was Frankie, holding an assault rifle, blood splattered across his suit jacket.
“Where are you, little maid?” Frankie sneered, scanning the dark room. “Dominic’s busy downstairs with my main squad. Time to wrap up loose ends—”
Bea didn't think. She didn't hesitate.
Remembering the boy she loved like her own son, and the man who had given his heart to save her, Bea stepped out from behind the bed, raised the revolver with both hands, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The heavy recoil slammed into her wrists. The bullet caught Frankie squarely in the shoulder, spinning him around and causing him to drop his rifle as he screamed in agony, crashing against the floorboards.
Before Frankie could reach for his dropped weapon, a shadow materialized behind him.
Dominic stepped into the room, holding a sleeping, crying Leo securely in his left arm. Without missing a beat, Dominic raised his pistol with his right hand and placed a single round into Frankie’s thigh, neutralizing his brother completely.
“Guard!” Dominic bellowed into his radio.
Two of Dominic’s loyal house guards rushed into the room, securing the bleeding, groaning Frankie and dragging him out into the hall to face syndicate justice.
Dominic set Leo down on the rug. The five-year-old ran straight into Bea’s open arms, sobbing hysterically.
Bea fell to her knees, clutching Leo against her chest, crying tears of overwhelming relief as she kissed the boy’s face over and over again.
May you like
Dominic stood over them, his clothes torn, blood on his collar, his gun lowered. He looked down at the woman he loved—holding his son, holding the weapon she had fired to protect their family—and felt a wave of profound, absolute devotion wash over his soul.
He dropped to his knees beside them, pulling both Bea and Leo into his massive, unbreakable arms.
