Chapter 5 - Poison and Protection
"STAY DOWN!" Dominic roared.
In a split second, he scooped Mateo out of his basket with his left arm and grabbed my waist with his right, slamming us both down behind the reinforced mahogany wall of the nursery closet.
Shouts, heavy gunfire, and breaking glass echoed from the floor below.
"Dominic!" I screamed over the chaos, holding Mateo tightly against my chest as Dominic handed him to me.
"Falcone," Dominic growled, pulling a heavy black combat pistol from his ankle holster. "They breached the outer courtyard."
He pulled out a small tactical radio from his belt. "Frank! Report!"
"Boss!" Frank's static-filled voice yelled over the radio. "They hit the front gates with an armored truck! At least ten shooters inside the foyer! We're falling back to the safe room!"
"Get the East Wing team up here now!" Dominic ordered. He turned to me, his dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated steel. "Listen to me, Clara. This closet is a reinforced panic room. The steel plates in the walls are bulletproof."
He stepped out, grabbed a hidden lever behind the shelving, and a heavy iron door slid halfway out from the wall.
"Get inside," Dominic commanded. "Lock it from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me or Frank."
"Dominic, no!" I grabbed his sleeve, panic gripping my throat. "They have automatic weapons! You can't go down there alone!"
Dominic leaned down, grabbed my jaw in his hand, and pressed a hard, fierce, possessive kiss directly onto my lips.
It was hot, fast, and tasted of iron and thunder.
"I have something to come back to now," Dominic growled against my mouth. "Get inside!"
He shoved us into the steel room and hit the closing button. The iron door slammed shut with a heavy CLANG, sealing Mateo and me in total darkness, illuminated only by a small green emergency strip light.
Outside, the muffled sounds of gunfire and explosions raged for what felt like an eternity.
I sat on the floor of the panic room, holding Mateo tightly against my heart, rocking him back and forth as tears streamed down my face. Please, God, I prayed into the dark. Don't take him. Don't let Dominic die.
Forty-five excruciating minutes passed.
Mateo began to squirm, whimpering softly. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out his backup pacifier, popping it into his mouth.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door whirred and slid open.
Light flooded the safe room.
Dominic stood in the doorway. His white shirt was torn, soaked in blood across his left forearm, his dark hair messy, his face smudged with soot. In his right hand, he held his smoking pistol.
Behind him, Frank and three guards were clearing the hall, their faces pale.
"Dominic!" I gasped.
He dropped his gun onto the carpet, stepped into the safe room, and fell to his knees in front of us. He pulled both Mateo and me into his arms, crushing us against his broad chest, his heavy breathing shaking his frame.
"It's over," Dominic wheezed against my hair. "Falcone’s hit team is dead. The estate is secure."
"You're bleeding!" I cried, pulling back to inspect his arm.
"It's a grazing shot," Dominic said, ignoring the wound completely. He reached out, his trembling hand touching my cheek, then smoothing over Mateo’s soft head. "Are you hurt? Did he cry?"
"We're okay," I sobbed, laughing through my tears. "We're okay."
Two hours later, the local police—who were heavily on Dominic’s payroll—had cleared the property, taking away the bodies and filing false reports of a gas explosion.
I sat in Dominic’s private bathroom, sitting on the edge of the marble bathtub, stitching the four-inch gash on his left forearm with a local anesthetic and sterile suture thread from my medical kit.
Dominic sat quietly on a wooden chair in front of me, his shirt off, exposing his massive, scarred torso. He didn't even flinch as my needle pierced his skin.
"You're very precise," Dominic noted softly, watching my hands work.
"I spent two years in pediatric trauma," I replied, tying off a knot. "Adult skin is much thicker."
"Clara," Dominic said quietly.
I looked up into his dark eyes.
"The insider who gave Falcone the blueprint for our security gates," Dominic said, his voice cold as ice. "It was the head butler, Arthur. The man who hired the three original nannies."
I froze, the suture scissors hovering in my hand. "What?"
"Arthur was paid fifty thousand dollars by Falcone to ensure Mateo died of 'natural causes' or neglect," Dominic revealed, his jaw clenching. "The cow's milk... the deliberate ignorance... it wasn't a mistake, Clara. It was an attempted assassination of my heir."
A cold shudder ran down my spine. The image of little Mateo writhing in pain at the restaurant filled my mind. "They were trying to kill a baby?"
"They wanted to break me," Dominic growled. "They knew if Mateo died, I would go insane and make mistakes. But you walked across that dining room. You saved my son, and you ruined Falcone’s plan."
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He reached out, taking my hands in his, bringing my medical-stained fingers to his warm lips.
"You aren't just Mateo's nurse anymore, Clara," Dominic swore softly, his grey-dark eyes burning into mine. "You are the heart of this family. And as long as I draw breath, no one will ever harm you again."
