Chapter 2 - The Sanctum on Ridge Road
The house on Ridge Road did not look like the residence of a man who controlled four miles of industrial coastline and two hundred armed men. It was a three-story stone structure built in the 1920s, set back into the dark pine hills three miles north of the city limits, hidden behind high slate walls and iron gates that opened only for three specific transponders.
Rain was still hammering the roof of the SUV when Dominic pulled into the subterranean garage.
The journey from Fourth and Mercer had been silent. Claire sat in the front passenger seat, wrapped in Dominic’s heavy charcoal coat, her small hands holding a mug of lukewarm coffee Miles had bought from a drive-thru window on the highway. Her eyes were fixed on the dashboard, unblinking, watching the windshield wipers sweep back and forth.
Miles got out first, pulling Keller out of the trunk by his collar. The man was gagged with heavy black tape, his hands zip-tied behind his back, his eyes rolling in white-rimmed terror as he looked around the concrete garage.
"Take him down to the wine cellar," Dominic told Miles as he opened Claire’s door. "Bind him to the central post. Don't touch him until I come down."
"Evelyn Price is on line two," Miles said, holding up his tablet. "She says the District Attorney just signed three warrants for Harrow's warehouses on Fifth. Someone leaked the shipping manifests we were looking at tonight."
"Tell her to hold," Dominic said.
He reached down and took Claire’s hand. Her skin was ice-cold. She didn't let go of him as she stepped down from the vehicle, her heel catching slightly on her torn skirt. Dominic didn't hesitate; he scooped her up into his arms, carrying her toward the private elevator that led directly into the main living quarters.
"Dominic, I can walk," she murmured softly, her voice still thin, though the shaking had lessened.
"I know," he said, stepping into the wood-paneled elevator cab and pressing the button for the third floor. "Let me."
The third floor was Dominic’s personal sanctuary—a massive, open-plan apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey, churning expanse of the Ravensport harbor three miles below. It was decorated in minimalist shades of bronze, iron, and deep walnut, completely devoid of the gaudy gold and red velvet typical of the older cartel bosses in the city.
He set her down gently on the long leather sofa near the fireplace.
"Stay here," he said.
He walked into the master bathroom, turned on the heavy brass faucets over the stone tub, and threw two handfuls of cedar salts into the steaming water. When he returned, he brought a thick, dark wool robe and a pair of soft slippers.
Claire was sitting exactly where he had left her, staring at the small blue flame flickering in the gas fireplace. Her hands were still tucked inside his coat sleeves.
"He knew things, Dominic," she said softly, without looking up. "Things that aren't in the public registry. He knew my mother died when I was twelve. He knew I had three months left on my apartment lease on Elm Street."
Dominic knelt on the floor in front of her, resting his hands on her knees. The position made him look almost vulnerable—a sixty-two-inch man whose name made port authority directors sweat through their collars, kneeling like a penitent on his own rug.
"How long has he been following you?" Dominic asked.
"Two weeks," she whispered. "I thought... I thought he was just an annoying guy from the port accounting office who kept showing up at the bakery near my building. Then tonight he sent me a message saying he had documents regarding the missing container files from 2022. The ones you thought were burned."
Dominic’s jaw tightened until the muscle twitched beneath his scar. "He used my business to bait you."
"I wanted to help," she said, her eyes finally rising to meet his, filled with a sudden, painful heat. "You’ve been sleeping three hours a night for a month, Dominic. Everyone in the office knows Silas is pressing the south piers. I thought... I thought if I could just get those manifests, you wouldn't have to go to those meetings in the basement anymore."
"Claire," he said, his voice cracking slightly on her name. He reached up, his large, calloused thumb gently wiping a trace of smudge from her cheekbone. "Look at me."
She blinked, a single tear breaking free and running down her skin to touch his hand.
"You are my secretary," he said slowly, clearly, as if explaining a fundamental law of physics. "You keep my schedule. You manage my assets. You make sure I don't burn this city to the ground every time an inspector asks for a bribe. You do not risk your life for my containers."
"You came for me," she whispered. "You left the Harrow meeting. You left everyone."
"I would burn Ravensport to the ground before I let a man like Keller put a finger on you," Dominic said. "Do you understand me?"
She stared at him, her lips parting slightly. For four years, they had lived behind an invisible wall of heavy oak desks, signed memos, formal titles, and polite, distant morning greetings. She was Ms. Bennett; he was Mr. Vale. They had shared three hundred dinners across room-service tables in five different cities, but they had never touched like this.
"The bath is ready," Dominic said softly, standing up and extending his hand to her. "Change. Put on the robe. I have work to do downstairs."
Her fingers tightened around his. "Don't... don't do anything that makes you someone else, Dominic."
May you like
Dominic looked at her for a long moment, then raised her small hand to his lips, pressing a brief, burning kiss to her knuckles.
"That depends entirely on what Keller has to tell me," he said.
