Chapter 4 - Blood in the Snow
Three weeks later, the snow piled high against the windows of the Westchester safehouse.
Nema had stopped counting the days. The initial panic had given way to a strange, dangerous adaptation. She spent her mornings reviewing shipping manifests with Vincent, learning the intricate, sprawling logistics of the Vasquez import-export corporation—which was half legitimate multi-national trade and half high-stakes syndicate operations.
She had traded her faded sneakers and stained waitress apron for tailored cashmere sweaters and designer slacks provided by Dom’s personal shoppers. Yet, beneath the surface, she remained Nema Reyes—the girl from Queens who knew how to spot a rat in a crowded room.
It was 2:00 a.m. when the electronic security grid on the perimeter fence tripped.
Nema was sitting at the oak desk in the cabin’s study, reviewing a stack of customs clearance forms, when the red warning light on the console began to pulse silently.
She didn't scream. She didn't panic.
She stood up, walked to the hallway closet, and pulled out the suppressed Glock 19 that Vincent had insisted she keep under her mattress—teaching her how to strip, clean, and fire it over two intensive weeks of target practice in the estate’s underground shooting range.
Clack.
The slide locked into place with a sharp, lethal sound.
A heavy thud echoed against the back kitchen door. Someone was trying to pick the digital deadbolt.
Nema crept silently across the hardwood floor, slipping into the shadows of the kitchenette. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands were steady.
The door clicked open.
A shadowy figure stepped inside, muffled in black tactical gear, carrying an assault rifle with an integrated suppressor. He swept the room with the barrel, his night-vision goggles casting an eerie green glow across his helmet.
He took two steps toward the hallway.
Nema raised the Glock.
“Drop it,” she said, her voice cold, steady, and devoid of fear.
The intruder spun around instantly, raising his rifle barrel toward her voice—but Nema was already moving.
Bang.
The suppressed shot sounded like a heavy book slamming against a desk. The bullet caught the intruder squarely in his Kevlar vest, the concussive force dropping him to his knees with a sharp gasp of air.
Before he could recover, Nema closed the distance, kicked the rifle out of his gloved hand, and pressed the barrel of her pistol against the side of his helmet.
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
The man let out a harsh, gravelly laugh beneath his mask. “Too late... sweetcheeks. The boss... is already—"
Crack.
A second shot echoed through the cabin door—not from Nema’s gun.
Vincent stepped into the kitchen through the front entrance, lowering his smoking firearm as the intruder slumped forward, motionless against the linoleum floor. Vincent holstered his weapon, stepping over the body with practiced indifference. He looked at Nema, taking in her steady stance, the locked slide of her pistol, and the absolute lack of hysteria in her eyes.
“Nice grouping, Miss Reyes,” Vincent remarked casually. “Center mass. Exactly where I taught you.”
Nema lowered her gun, letting out a long, shuddering breath as the adrenaline finally began to recede from her veins. Her hands began to shake.
“How many?” she whispered.
“Four total,” Vincent replied, pulling out his encrypted satellite phone. “The perimeter team handled the other three before they cleared the treeline. This one was the backup. Remnants of Tommy’s loyalists trying to settle a score.”
Dom stepped through the open doorway moments later.
He wore a dark wool sweater, his dark hair slightly disheveled from sleep, but his eyes were wide, sharp, and blazing with a terrifying, protective fury. He scanned the kitchen, saw the fallen intruder, and then his gaze locked instantly onto Nema.
He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing her by the shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice rough and stripped of its usual composure.
“I’m fine,” Nema breathed, looking up at him. “I’m fine, Dom.”
Dom pulled her into his arms, burying his face against her hair, holding her with a fierce, desperate strength that revealed just how close he had come to losing the only person in his world who truly saw him for who he was.
“Vincent,” Dom ordered without releasing Nema from his embrace.
“Boss?”
“Clear the bodies. And find out who funded this hit in New Jersey. I want their operations dismantled by sunrise.”
“Consider it done,” Vincent said, stepping back out into the cold night air.
Dom slowly pulled back, his hands resting gently on Nema’s shoulders, his dark eyes searching her face. “You handled yourself like a soldier.”
“I’m not a soldier,” Nema whispered, a bitter smile touching her lips. “I’m just a waitress who hates having her coffee interrupted.”
May you like
Dom’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. He reached up, gently brushing a strand of dark hair away from her forehead.
“No, Nema,” he murmured softly. “You’re the queen of this empire now. It’s time we started acting like it.”
