Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Well
"Don't look at me like that," I said, pulling my wrist free from his grasp and snatching the locket back, clutching it tightly against my chest. "You don't get to look at me like you care."
Dominic didn't flinch. He stayed kneeling on the rug, his massive frame still and imposing, his eyes drinking in every detail of my face as if he were trying to memorize a miracle.
"We searched for you for three years," Dominic said, the words heavy and hollow. "After the warehouse in Queens was firebombed... when we found your father’s body... they found female remains near the back exit. Teeth, jewelry, bones. The coroner confirmed it was you."
"The coroner was on Senator Vance's payroll," I retorted, the bitterness bleeding into my voice like venom. "My father knew the hit was coming two days before it happened. He traded me to a family of dockworkers in Maine, dressed a corpse from the county morgue in my clothes, and told me to run and never look back."
Dominic’s eyes flared with a lethal, predatory fire. "Vance? Senator Vance orchestrated the hit on the Morettis?"
"Who do you think funded the coup that wiped out the old guard?" I sneered, leaning forward, the pain in my arm entirely forgotten. "Who do you think cleared the shipping lanes through Boston harbor so your father’s syndicate could swallow up the scraps? You think Cassandra Vance is marrying you for your charming personality, Dominic? Her father needs your guns to keep the feds away, and she needs your empire to wash their dirty political blood-money!"
Dominic stood up slowly, the transition so fluid it was terrifying. He turned toward the window, looking out over the frozen expanse of the estate grounds where sleet was still rattling violently against the glass.
"I knew Vance was dirty," Dominic said quietly, his voice like rumbling thunder before a strike. "I took this alliance because the syndicate was bleeding after the war. My captains were restless. We needed the political shield Vance provided to rebuild our supply lines." He paused, his knuckles turning white as he braced his hands against the heavy oak sill. "If I had known—if I had possessed even a shred of proof that Vance pulled the trigger on your family—I would have skinned him alive in the public square."
"It doesn't matter now," I said, weary to the bone. "The Moretti family is dead. I am just a maid trying to survive."
"Why did you come here?" Dominic asked, turning around sharply. "If you were safe in Maine, why the hell did you apply for a scullery job in my house? Why put yourself in the lion's mouth?"
A cold smile touched my lips. "Because I knew you were going to marry her. And because I needed access to Vance's personal safe in the city office. The only way to get close enough to steal the offshore ledgers was to work inside the household."
Dominic stared at me, a mixture of disbelief and sheer respect dawning on his face. "You walked into the center of the serpent’s nest, completely unarmed, disguised as a servant, to run an espionage campaign against the United States Senate and the Sterling Syndicate?"
"I am Antonio Moretti's daughter," I said simply. "Did you think I was going to spend the rest of my life gutting fish in Portland?"
Before Dominic could respond, a soft, frantic scratching came at the study door, followed by a frantic whisper.
"Boss! Dominic! Open up, please!"
It was Marcus.
Dominic moved across the room in two strides, unlocking the door and pulling it open. "What is it?"
Marcus stepped in, his face pale beneath his weathered scars. He glanced at me, then leaned in close to Dominic, but Dominic held up a hand.
"Speak in front of her," Dominic commanded. "She knows more about the Vance family than both of us combined."
Marcus swallowed hard, nodding. "The kitchen boy just found Higgins lying in the pantry. Unconscious."
My stomach dropped like a stone. "Mrs. Higgins?"
"She isn't dead," Marcus said quickly. "Someone hit her over the head with an iron skillet. And... Boss, the tea service she was preparing for this room? The camomile tea you always have after midnight? The lab kit in my car tested positive for concentrated potassium cyanide."
The silence in the room became absolute. The air turned so cold it burned to breathe.
"Cassandra," I whispered, the realization hitting me with terrifying clarity. "She saw the locket."
"What?" Dominic snapped, turning to me.
"In the ballroom," I said, my heart racing. "Before you caught her arm, the crop tore my collar. The locket swung out. Cassandra looked directly at it. She recognized the Moretti crest. That’s why she didn't fight back when you dismissed her so easily. She didn't retreat to her room to cry—she retreated to eliminate the loose ends!"
Dominic didn't hesitate. He reached behind his back, unholstering a sleek, matte-black Sig Sauer from his belt, checking the chamber with a crisp, metallic snap.
"Marcus. Lockdown the entire estate. Nobody leaves the grounds. Cut the main gate power, raise the tire spikes, and take four men to the east wing."
"Boss, Vance’s private security detail is still stationed in the guest lodge," Marcus warned. "There are twelve armed ex-military contractors out there."
"Then tell our men to shoot on sight," Dominic said, his eyes devoid of mercy.
Suddenly, the lights in the study flickered violently once, twice, and then plunged into total, suffocating darkness. The hum of the central heating died instantly. Downstairs, a muffled pop—unmistakably the sound of a suppressed firearm—shattered the quiet of the night.
"They cut the mains," Marcus hissed, his own gun sliding from his holster. "They're moving on the house."
"They aren't moving on the house to kill me," Dominic said, stepping between the door and where I sat on the couch, his massive silhouette blocking the entrance like an impenetrable wall. "They’re moving on the house to finish what they started seven years ago."
He reached down into the dark, his hand finding mine, his grip unshakeable and fierce.
"Elena," he murmured in the shadows. "Do you remember the shooting range behind the vineyard in Palermo? When you were twelve?"
A feral, reckless spark ignited in my chest, burning away the pain, the exhaustion, and the fear.
"I shot better than your lieutenants," I whispered back.
May you like
"Good," Dominic said, reaching into the hidden drawer of his desk and pulling out a heavy, pearl-handled .357 Magnum—my father's signature weapon, kept safe in Dominic's desk for seven years. He pressed the cold steel into my palm. "Let’s remind Senator Vance what happens when you strike a Moretti."
***
