Chapter 7 - The Trial of Blood and Debt
Three black armored SUVs pulled up onto the sidewalk, blocking the bookstore entrance entirely.
Heavy tactical doors flew open, and six armed Moretti security operatives flooded into the building with lethal efficiency.
Nikolai tried to raise his weapon, but Marco fired a single, non-lethal shot into Nikolai’s shoulder. The enforcer screamed, dropping his gun and crashing onto the hardwood floor. The other two thugs immediately dropped to their knees, throwing their hands into the air as Moretti’s men pinned them to the ground.
Grant let out a pathetic shriek of terror, stumbling backward, tripping over a stack of hardcover novels, and crashing onto his back.
The heavy front door swung open once more.
Dominic walked into the bookstore, stepping over the shattered window glass with calm, unhurried steps. He wore a long dark trench coat over his charcoal suit. He didn't look at the thugs on the floor. He walked straight past them, his eyes locked entirely on me.
“Are you hurt, Nora?” Dominic asked, stepping behind the counter and pulling me into his arms.
“I’m fine,” I said, resting my cheek against his strong chest as I breathed in his reassuring scent. “Your team was perfect.”
Dominic turned around, looking down at Grant, who was cowering against a bookshelf, clutching a bleeding scratch on his elbow.
“Get him up,” Dominic commanded coldly.
Marco grabbed Grant by the collar of his suit, hoisting him to his feet like a sack of dirty laundry.
“Dominic... please!” Grant sobbed, his face white with terror, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. “It was Petrov! He forced me to do it! He said he’d kill me if I didn't give him Nora!”
“You offered my woman to a syndicate butcher to pay for your own gambling debts, Grant,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the air in the room feel heavy. “You abused her mother for twelve years. You bruised her skin. And now you dare to call her name in my presence.”
Dominic reached into his coat and pulled out a silver leather binder, tossing it onto the counter.
“What... what is that?” Grant whimpered.
“That is the complete forensic trail of your offshore tax fraud, your forged real estate liens, and your domestic abuse police reports,” Dominic declared. “Assistant District Attorney Sarah Jenkins is currently sitting in my office at Moretti International, signing thirty-four federal felony arrest warrants with your name on them.”
Grant’s eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated horror. “Federal... federal charges? No! I’m a businessman! You can’t do this to me!”
The front doors opened once more.
My mother, Diane, walked into the bookstore. She was dressed in a sharp navy coat, her posture straight, her chin held high. For the first time in my life, she didn't shrink away when Grant looked at her.
Grant stared at her, desperate. “Diane! Diane, baby, tell them! Tell them it was all a mistake! Tell them I loved you!”
My mother walked straight up to Grant. She looked him in the eye—the man who had terrorized her home, broken her spirit, and bruised her daughter.
She reached out and slapped him across the face with everything she had.
SMACK!
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The sharp crack echoed through the ruined bookstore. Grant’s head snapped to the side, stunned into absolute silence.
“You never loved us, Grant,” my mother said, her voice clear, powerful, and utterly devoid of fear. “You loved control. And today, you have nothing.”
