Chapter 3 - Blood on Marble
The applause for the orchestra echoed politely through the grand hall. To the crowd, the dance was over. Mateo was already turning back toward his circle of underlings, a sneer plastered across his face as he prepared to toast to what he assumed was Dominic’s impending execution.
Instead, Dominic walked Beatatrice smoothly off the floor, his heavy arm draped around her lower back in a gesture that was unmistakably possessive. Every eye in the room followed them—not with laughter now, but with stunned, bewildered silence.
As they reached the edge of the terrace doors, Mateo stepped into their path, a silver glass raised.
“Dominic!” Mateo called out, his tone dripping with fake camaraderie. “I see you survived the dance. I didn't think you had a taste for… heavy footwork.”
The men behind Mateo chuckled nervously, but Dominic didn't stop walking. He stopped six inches from Mateo, his massive frame towering over the younger man. The warmth from the dance had vanished entirely from Dominic’s eyes, replaced by an abyss of cold, lethal calculation.
“Mateo,” Dominic said smoothly, his hand remaining firm and warm against Beatatrice’s waist. “Your waiter in the west wing had terrible posture. My men are currently showing him out.”
Mateo’s glass froze halfway to his lips. The color drained from his face so fast he looked instantly sick. “What... what waiter?”
“The one you paid two hundred thousand dollars to stand by the ice sculpture,” Dominic whispered, leaning down so only Mateo could hear. “We’ll discuss your accounting errors in private tomorrow morning. If you leave the city tonight, I will hunt you down myself.”
Without waiting for a response, Dominic guided Beatatrice past Mateo, whose hand was shaking so violently his bourbon spilled over his fingers.
Dominic led her down a private, carpeted hallway away from the main ballroom, flanked by four armed guards who fell into formation behind them. He pushed open the heavy oak doors to a private holding suite, stepping inside and locking the bolt behind them.
The room was quiet, lit only by a warm fire crackling in a stone fireplace and the city lights filtering through tall bulletproof windows.
Beatatrice released a long, shaky breath, sinking slightly against the side of a leather armchair. “That was... intense.”
“That was sloppy on Mateo’s part,” Dominic said, pulling off his black velvet suit jacket and tossing it onto a nearby table. He unbuttoned his top two shirt buttons, revealing a thick neck and the edge of a dark tattoo rising up his collar. “He mistook my patience for weakness. But more importantly—he mistook you for an easy mark.”
He walked over to a small mahogany bar, poured two fingers of dark amber glass, and handed it directly to her. His gaze lingered on her face, taking in her dark hair, her flushed cheeks, and the soft, beautiful curves of her frame that the green velvet dress hugged so elegantly.
“Drink,” he ordered gently. “It helps with the shock.”
“I’m not in shock,” Beatatrice said, taking the glass. Her fingers brushed his, sending a jolt of heat straight down her spine. “I’m angry. I’ve worked at Russo Financial for four years. I spent eighty hours a week combing through ledgers because I cared about doing my job right. And when I found Mateo’s shell companies, he tried to have me fired twice before settling on murder.”
She reached into her small emerald clutch, pulled out a sleek, encrypted flash drive, and held it out to him.
“Everything is here,” she said firmly. “The offshore account numbers in Panama, the fake invoices for dock machinery, and the names of the three port inspectors Mateo paid off. He wasn’t just stealing from you, Mr. Russo. He was preparing to sell your territory to the Moretti family in New York.”
Dominic took the flash drive, but he didn't look down at it. His eyes stayed locked on Beatatrice.
“You risked your life to bring me this,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, velvet hum. “Why didn't you go to the federal authorities? Or just run?”
Beatatrice looked him dead in the eye, refusing to shrink back. “Because the feds would have taken five years to audit the papers while Mateo took over the city. And running means living in fear. I don't run.”
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Dominic stood over her, his presence overwhelming, warm, and dangerous. For the first time in her life, Beatatrice didn't feel small or invisible. She felt seen—completely and utterly exposed under the intense gaze of a man who ruled an empire.
“No,” Dominic murmured, reaching out with a heavy, calloused hand to touch the side of her jaw. His thumb brushed gently against her cheekbone. “You don't run. You dance with devils and save their lives.”
