Chapter 1 - The Cold Room
The heavy wool of Dominic’s coat absorbed Mia’s tears, but her shivering did not stop. Three days in a damp, unheated subterranean stone vault had chilled her to the bone. Her breathing was shallow, a ragged scraping sound in the quiet cellar. Dominic sat on the dirt-streaked stone floor, supporting her head, while Harper buried her face in her mother's neck.
Dominic did not look at them anymore. His focus had shifted. His eyes were locked on Nathan Cross, who stood in the doorway of the vault.
Nathan’s hands were tucked loosely into his pockets. He looked shocked—perfectly, flawlessly shocked. A man who didn't know him would have believed the pale horror on his face. But Dominic had watched Nathan look just like this at the funerals of men they had personally ordered to be buried.
"Who did this, Dom?" Nathan repeated, his voice tight with an anger that sounded entirely genuine. "I swear to God, if someone from the Moretti family got inside this house while you were gone—"
"Shut up, Nathan," Dominic said. The quietness of his voice made Marcus, the senior guard holding the bolt cutters, take a step backward.
Dominic slipped his arms under Mia, lifting her gently. Even with the added weight of Harper clinging to her waist, he rose in one fluid, powerful movement.
"Marcus, carry the girl," Dominic ordered. "Daniel, call Dr. Aris. Tell him to get to the estate in ten minutes or I’ll have him dragged here by his hair. No hospitals. No police. Not yet."
Nathan stepped back to clear the doorway, his hands raised in a gesture of absolute cooperation. "Let me help, Dom. I'll get the car—"
"You stay right here," Dominic said, his gaze cutting through the dim cellar light like a blade. "All of you stay where I can see you. Marcus, once you carry Harper upstairs, lock down every gate. Nobody enters. Nobody leaves. If a bird tries to fly over the wall, shoot it."
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"What about Claire?" Nathan asked, his eyes flickering slightly. "She’s upstairs in the master suite. She’s probably still sleeping."
Dominic didn't answer. He carried Mia past his oldest friend, his shoulder brushing Nathan’s white sleeve. A faint trace of expensive lavender perfume—Claire’s perfume—clung to the fabric of Nathan's shirt. It was barely noticeable beneath the scent of gun oil and damp cellar dust, but to Dominic, it smelled like an obituary.
