Chapter 3 - The Citadel in Brooklyn
The armored Yukon didn't look like a mob boss's vehicle from the outside; it looked like a sleek black tank disguised as a executive city car.
Within twenty minutes, we had crossed the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn Heights, pulling through a heavy iron gate into the private courtyard of a grand, four-story limestone brownstone. High brick walls surrounded the property, crowned with discreet security cameras and heavy electronic locks.
Dominic got out first. Before I could even struggle to slide across the leather seat with thirty-five pounds of sleeping child in my arms, the rear door opened, and Dominic reached inside.
“Give him to me,” he commanded softly.
“I’ve got him—”
“Abigail, you’re shaking from exhaustion,” Dominic said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Let me take him.”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before carefully transferring Noah into his arms.
Dominic adjusted the little boy effortlessly, resting Noah’s head against his broad shoulder. Noah let out a soft snuffle, his tiny hand instinctively reaching up to grab the lapel of Dominic’s five-thousand-dollar charcoal suit jacket.
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't push the sticky little fingers away. He simply wrapped one massive arm around Noah’s back, shielding him from the light rain, and gestured for me to follow him up the wide granite steps.
The interior of the brownstone was stunning—dark oak floors, warm amber lighting, soaring ceilings, and books lining the walls from floor to ceiling. But more than that, it felt like an impenetrable fortress.
A woman in her late fifties wearing a crisp apron hurried down the hall.
“Mr. Vale,” she said, stopping short when she saw me, and then looking in utter shock at the child resting against Dominic’s chest. “Oh my.”
“Mrs. Higgins,” Dominic said calmly, walking past her into a sprawling living room warmed by a crackling stone fireplace. “Prepare the primary guest suite on the third floor. Bring up clean towels, fresh clothes for Abigail, and whatever children’s food we have in the pantry.”
“Of course, sir. Right away.”
Dominic walked over to a deep velvet sofa and lowered Noah onto the plush cushions with an astonishing amount of care. He pulled a cashmere throw blanket from the arm of the couch and draped it gently over my son.
I stood near the fireplace, warming my hands, watching him.
“You’re surprisingly good with kids for a man who controls the waterfront,” I murmured, crossing my arms over my chest. I felt self-conscious—my oversized sweater was soaked, my hair was frizzy, and my curves felt entirely too visible in the firelight. I wasn't the sleek, polished socialites Dominic Vale was probably used to seeing in Manhattan clubs. I was a tired, chubby single mom with dark circles under my eyes.
Dominic turned around, his slate-grey gaze sweeping over me with slow, unhurried appreciation.
“My sister had three boys before she passed,” Dominic said softly. “I know how to handle children, Abigail. And you don't need to shrink yourself in my house.”
My cheeks flushed hot. “What?”
“You’re pulling your sweater around yourself like you think you’re taking up too much space,” Dominic said, stepping closer. He stopped two feet away, his towering frame casting a warm shadow over me. “You carried a child five miles through a cold storm to keep him safe. You stood up to a room full of armed men without blinking. You take up exactly as much space as you deserve.”
My breath hitched. Nobody had spoken to me like that in six years. Not my ex-husband, who had left the moment my pregnancy test turned positive, and certainly not my bosses at Northstar.
“I have the drive,” I said quickly, needing to shift the focus before my pounding heart betrayed me.
I reached beneath my sweater, retrieved the small USB drive, and held it out to him.
Dominic didn't take it immediately. He looked at the drive, then up at my face.
“Keep it for tonight,” he said. “Mrs. Higgins will show you to your room. Get a shower, get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, you and I are going to sit down with a fresh pot of coffee, and you’re going to show me where the bodies are buried in my own ledgers.”
“Dominic,” I called out as he turned to leave.
He stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Why are you doing this? You could have just taken the drive from me at the club and thrown me out.”
May you like
Dominic looked back at Noah sleeping soundly on his couch, then back at me.
“Because, Abigail,” he said coldly, “Marcus Vance made the mistake of thinking he could scare a mother in my city. I dislike arrogant men. But more than that, I dislike people who think they can touch what belongs to my world.”
