Chapter 2 - The Anatomy of a Boss
By five o'clock in the morning, the rain had stopped, leaving Boston wrapped in a thick, suffocating sea fog that turned the streetlights into dim, orange halos.
Inside Sullivan's Diner, the heat was turned up to maximum.
Clara had dragged three padded vinyl booth cushions into the back office, creating a makeshift mattress on the floor. She had dragged Dominic onto it—a task that nearly blew out her own lower back—and kept him covered in three thick woolen blankets from her mother's trunk in the attic.
She had spent the last two hours improvising baby care. Using warm water, a splash of whole milk, and a tiny bit of sugar dissolved in a teacup, she had used a clean plastic condiment squeeze bottle to feed the starving twins. Miraculously, it worked. The infants were now fast asleep on a pile of chef's aprons beside the desk, full and warm.
Clara sat in the office swivel chair, holding a lukewarm cup of black coffee, the heavy 9mm pistol resting on the blotter beside her notebook.
A low groan came from the floor.
Dominic moved. His fingers twitched, taking in the texture of the wool blanket before his eyes snapped open—sharp, defensive, instantly alert. In a fraction of a second, his hand shot out to his waist, reaching for the holster that was no longer there.
"It's on the desk," Clara said quietly, taking a sip of her coffee. "And if you try to jump up, you're going to tear the packing out of your side and bleed all over my mother's blankets."
Dominic froze. He slowly turned his head, his blue eyes registering the small, cluttered office, the baby crate resting near the radiator, and Clara sitting calmly under the buzzing fluorescent light.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, resting his forearm across his forehead.
"The babies?" he asked, his voice rough like gravel.
"Fed, clean, and sleeping," Clara replied. "Though your son has a mean grip, and your daughter burped louder than most of my morning truck drivers."
A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the corner of Dominic’s mouth. "That's Gia. She takes after her mother."
"And who is her mother?" Clara asked.
Dominic's expression instantly guarded over, the warmth evaporating like mist. "Dead. She died six weeks ago. Complications after childbirth."
Clara lowered her coffee cup. The lingering hardness in her own heart softened just a fraction. She knew the weight of a fresh, gaping loss. "I'm sorry."
Dominic didn't accept the sympathy. He carefully pushed himself up into a sitting position, bracing his back against the side of the metal desk. The plastic wrap around his ribs held firm, though a fresh spot of crimson was seeping into the cloth underneath. He looked up at Clara, studying her with an intense, analytical gaze that felt like a medical scan.
"You're not a waitress," he said flatly.
"I am a waitress," Clara corrected. "I own this diner. Or rather, the bank owns this diner, and I work sixteen hours a day paying off the interest."
"You sealed a high-caliber gunshot wound with plastic wrap and dish towels, and you checked my pupillary response while I was out," Dominic observed. "Where did you learn trauma medicine?"
"Northeastern University. I was two semesters away from my nursing degree when my mom got diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer. I dropped out to care for her at home." Clara looked down at her hands. "When she died, the hospital bills wiped out her estate, and the bank threatened to foreclose on this place. It was her diner. My father built it in the nineties. So I stayed."
Dominic remained silent for a moment, taking in the details of her story. He didn't offer empty pity. A man like Dominic Romano lived in a world where everyone had a price, every story had an angle, and survival was the only currency that mattered.
"Who shot you?" Clara asked, breaking the silence.
"Marcus Valenti," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register of icy, absolute lethality. "My underboss. Or former underboss. He’s been quietly buying off my capos for the last six months while I was distracted with my wife's illness and the birth of the twins. Last night, he set an ambush at my estate in Brookline."
"He killed your guards?"
"He killed three of my men," Dominic said coldness radiating from him. "My security chief managed to get me and the babies out through the subterranean garage before he was hit. I drove until the engine took three rounds, then took to the alleys on foot. I was bleeding out when I saw the light above your back door."
Clara shook her head, terrified by the casually brutal realities of his life. "You can't stay here, Romano. If Valenti controls your organization, he controls the city. He’ll search every block in Southie. When morning comes and my prep cook arrives at six, this place will be full of people."
Dominic pulled himself up to a full stand. He swayed slightly, his face going pale from the sudden movement, but he caught himself against the desk. Standing at six-foot-three, broad-shouldered and imposing even in a ruined suit and bare feet, he dominated the tiny office completely.
"I need a phone," he said.
"No police, remember?"
"I don't call the police," Dominic said dryly. "I call people who handle problems."
He reached out his hand. Clara hesitated, then pulled her cheap prepaid flip phone from her apron pocket and handed it to him.
Dominic punched in a ten-digit number from memory, brought the phone to his ear, and waited.
"It's me," Dominic said the moment the line connected. "Code zero-nine. I'm breathing. The twins are unharmed... No. Brookline is burned. Valenti took the main estate... I'm at a location in Southie. I need a secure medical transport, three heavy security details, and a clean comms link... One hour. Send Gabriel."
He flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Clara.
"My head of personal security, Gabriel, survived the ambush," Dominic said. "He’s bringing a team to extract us before sunrise."
Clara let out a massive sigh of relief. "Good. Then you'll be gone before my baker turns on the ovens."
Dominic looked down at her. His icy blue eyes softened slightly as he looked at the young woman in the faded canvas apron—her dark hair tied in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes, standing ground between an army of hitmen and two helpless children.
"How much do you owe on this diner, Clara?" he asked suddenly.
Clara blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"The bank debt. The medical bills. How much is it?"
"That's none of your business."
"I make everything my business," Dominic said smoothly. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a rain-soaked, gold-embossed leather money clip, and set a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills on her desk. "That's ten thousand dollars for the towels, the coffee, and the silence."
Clara stared at the money. It was enough to cover two months of mortgage payments. It was enough to stop the collection agency from garnishing her merchant account next week.
She looked at the money, then looked up into Dominic Romano's eyes.
She picked up the stack of bills... and slid it right back across the desk toward him.
Dominic frowned, genuinely shocked. "What are you doing?"
"I didn't save your children for mob money, Mr. Romano," Clara said, her voice filled with a quiet, fierce pride that took him aback. "I saved them because they were two helpless babies freezing in the rain, and because I'm a nurse. Keep your money."
Dominic stared at her for a long, unblinking moment. For the first time that night, the cold, calculating mask of the Romano boss cracked completely, revealing the deep, complex man underneath.
"Nobody turns down my money, Clara," he said softly.
"Then I guess I'm the first," she replied, picking up her coffee cup.
May you like
Before Dominic could answer, the heavy glass window at the front of the diner shattered into a
thousand flying shards.
