2The mafia boss’s twins scared away every governess until a plus-size woman stayed and found the secret their mother left behind

The wind howled against the stone turrets of Bellmore Ridge, but the real chill was inside the library.

Bea closed the heavy oak door behind her.

Dominic was standing at the bar, pouring three fingers of bourbon into a crystal tumbler. He had shed his suit jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up over thick, corded forearms marked with faded ink and older scars.

He didn't turn around. “The girls are asleep?”

“They are,” Bea said.

“Harold told me Gia ate all her dinner. She hasn't done that since October.” He took a slow drink, his back still turned. “You have a way with them, Miss Hale.”

“They aren't wild animals, Mr. Bellmore. They’re little girls who think that if they love anyone new, they’re betraying the woman who gave them life.”

Dominic stiffened. He turned slowly, glass in hand, leaning against the edge of the mahogany bar. The low lamplight carved his sharp features into dramatic relief. His gaze swept over Bea—her curves framed by a simple forest-green wrap dress, her chestnut hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

“You speak very freely in this house,” he said, his tone deceptive in its softness. “Most people weigh their words before they speak to me.”

“Most people are terrified you’ll shoot them or fire them,” Bea countered, stepping further into the room. “I don't have anything left to lose, Dominic. When you’ve watched your mother slip away over three years and lost your home to hospital debt, an intimidating man in an expensive suit doesn't frighten you.”

Dominic stared at her. A slow, dangerous curve touched the corner of his lips. It wasn't a smile of amusement; it was the look of a predator encountering something it couldn't easily categorize.

“Is that what you think I am? An intimidating man in an expensive suit?”

“I know what you are,” Bea said quietly, walking straight up to the desk. “The whole state knows. You run the docks, the freight terminals, and half the local council. But in this house, you’re just a father who doesn't know how to look his daughters in the eye because they have their mother’s gaze.”

Dominic set the tumbler down with a sharp *clack*.

In two long strides, he crossed the room, closing the distance between them until Bea had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. The heat coming off him was suffocating, smelling of aged oak, tobacco, and raw masculine authority.

“Be careful, Beatrice,” he warned, his voice a low vibration against her skin. “You’re forgetting your place.”

“No,” Bea said, her chin lifting defiantly, her breath fanning against his collarbone. “You forgot yours. You locked that east wing and told your daughters it was empty. You let them believe their mother vanished into thin air without a trace, and now Frankie spends her nights having panic attacks because she thinks she hears ghosts.”

Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched beneath his scar. “You don't know what you’re talking about. You don't know what happened to Elena.”

“Then tell me.”

Dominic leaned down, his face inches from hers. His pale eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and an unbearable, ancient agony. “Elena died in a car crash on Route 9. The road iced over. Her brakes failed. She went off the embankment into the gorge.”

“And you believe that?” Bea asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Dominic’s breath hitched. “What did you say?”

Bea reached into the pocket of her dress. She pulled out the silver locket and the brass key, setting them squarely on the leather blotter between them.

Dominic’s whole body went rigid. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking like carved granite.

“Where did you find this?” he demanded, his voice turning lethally quiet.

“Frankie drew the hiding place,” Bea said. “She didn't know what it meant, Dominic. But your wife didn't hide a key in the floorboards because she was happy. She hid it because she was hunting someone.”

Dominic’s hand reached out, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly as he picked up the locket. He pressed the latch. The casing sprang open, revealing the yellowed clipping about the warehouse fire—a fire that had wiped out Dominic’s father’s primary shipping competitors twelve years ago, paving the way for the Bellmore empire to rise.

And Julian Vance’s name was circled in red.

Before Dominic could speak, the desk phone erupted with a shrill, double-ring pulse.

Dominic snatched the receiver. “What?”

Ross’s voice crackled through the speaker, frantic and breathless. “Boss, we’ve got a perimeter breach at Gate Four. A black delivery truck blew the barricade. They aren't trying to talk—they’ve got automatic rifles!”

Gunfire echoed in the distance, muffled by the thick stone walls of the manor, followed by the shriek of the estate sirens.

Dominic didn't flinch. In an instant, the grieving widower vanished, replaced by the apex commander of Bellmore Ridge. He pulled a heavy semi-automatic handgun from the desk drawer, racked the slide with a crisp *clack*, and gripped Bea’s arm.

His grip was iron, but his eyes were wide with a fierce, protective fire.

“Get the girls to the storm cellar beneath the kitchen,” he commanded. “Do not open the reinforced door for anyone except me or Ross. Do you understand me, Beatrice?”

“What about you?” she asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.