Chapter 10 - The Sovereign and the Sanctuary
Six months later.
Spring had finally broken through the high ridges of the Poconos, painting the black valleys below in vibrant, rolling waves of green and gold. The howling winds had softened into a gentle mountain breeze that carried the scent of blooming hemlock and wild mountain laurel.
The estate at Hawthorne was no longer a tomb of dark oak and whispered tragedies.
The heavy velvet drapes on the third floor had been taken down, replaced by sheer, flowing linen that billowed lazily in the afternoon sunlight. The broken lamps, the locked doors, the suffocating silence—all of it had been dismantled, room by room, breath by breath.
In the gardens overlooking the valley, the gravel paths had been raked clean, bordered by stone terraces where wild roses were beginning to climb the ancient granite walls.
I sat on the stone balustrade of the terrace, a sketchbook resting against my knees, watching the hawks circle lazy spirals against an azure sky.
Footsteps sounded on the terrace flagstones.
I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. The scent of cedarwood, dark espresso, and the clean warmth of his skin preceded him like a familiar tide.
Dominic stepped up behind me. He was dressed in a soft white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and broken-in dark trousers. His hair was slightly ruffled by the wind, his face completely free of bandages or shadows.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't brace for pain.
He leaned down, wrapping his broad arms around my waist from behind, burying his face into the crook of my neck where his bruises had long since faded into smooth, unblemished skin. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss against my pulse.
"Marcus just called from Newark," Dominic murmured, his voice rich, relaxed, and brimming with quiet contentment. "The new deep-water terminal opened this morning under the Carter-Vale Maritime charter. Clean manifests. Clean customs. Not a single Moretti dollar left on the eastern seaboard."
"And Anthony Russo?" I asked, tilting my head back to rest against his shoulder.
"Managing an olive grove outside Palermo," Dominic smiled, his lips brushing my ear. "Complaining bitterly about the price of goat feed."
I laughed, the sound bright and clear in the warm mountain air.
I turned around within the circle of his arms, resting my hands flat against his chest. Beneath the thin linen of his shirt, I felt the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart—a heart that beat freely, unburdened by the ghosts of Brooklyn or the horrors of the dark.
I reached up, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, lingering on his cheek where the tiny scar remained—a silver thread that marked where the armor had first cracked.
"Does it burn?" I whispered, looking deep into his silver eyes.
May you like
Dominic caught my wrist, but this time, he didn't pull away. He brought my palm to his lips, kissing the center of my hand with infinite, breathtaking reverence, before pressing it flat against his heart.
"Only with you, Lily," he said, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, sovereign and whole under an open sky. "Only with you."
