He Planned to Use Her and Walk Away—Until Her Forbidden Kiss Made the Mafia Boss Change Everything

“Richard Farnsworth has been on my payroll for ten years,” Dominico repeated softly, leaning back against the edge of the massive mahogany desk. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his icy blue eyes fixed on Clarion’s face, tracking every flicker of shock that registered in her expression. “He didn't try to protect you because he cared about your safety, Miss Hayes. He tried to protect you because he knew that if you dug too deep, I would have to deal with you.”

Clarion felt the room tilt. The air in her lungs tasted cold and metallic.

All those frantic warnings from Richard—his sweating brow, his trembling hands as he begged her to just balance the numbers and leave the Cayman accounts alone—hadn't been the anxiety of a boss worried about a client’s wrath. It had been the desperate panic of a man who knew he had let a lamb walk straight into a wolf’s den.

“You’re lying,” Clarion whispered, though even to her own ears, the denial sounded hollow.

“I don’t lie about my payroll, Miss Hayes,” Dominico replied smoothly. He reached out with one long, callous-rough finger and tapped the manila folder resting on the desk. “Richard received a four-hundred-thousand-dollar wire transfer into a Swiss account three days after you were hired at Farnsworth and Co. His job was simple: keep the federal auditors looking at routine tax shelters while I built the infrastructure to crush Gallagher. He was supposed to manage you. Instead, you outsmarted him.”

Clarion’s mind raced, her forensic training kicking in despite the adrenaline flooding her bloodstream. She forced herself to breathe, to stand tall in her damp trench coat, her fingers tight around the strap of her leather handbag.

“If Richard is yours, then my turning over those files to the FBI wouldn't have mattered,” she reasoned out loud, her voice gaining a fraction of its usual sharp edge. “He would have tipped you off before the agents even pulled their cars out of the plaza garage.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved Dominico’s lips. It was the first time his expression had shown anything resembling pleasure, though it held no gentleness.

“Brilliant,” he murmured, stepping off the desk and moving slowly toward her. His dark suit moved silently, his broad shoulders cutting off the warm light from the library’s stone fireplace. “Fast, logical, and entirely devoid of panic when cornered. Most people in your position would be crying or begging for their lives right now.”

“Crying won't rebalance your servers, Mr. Holden,” Clarion said, taking a subtle step back until the edge of a velvet armchair pressed against the back of her knees. “And begging won't stop you from doing whatever you brought me here to do. You didn't have your men pick me up in a Maybach just to give me a villain monologue. If you were going to kill me, Tommy would have done it in the parking garage.”

Dominico stopped two feet away from her. The scent of bergamot, rain, and expensive tobacco drifted off him, thick enough to dizzy her. He looked down at her—she was five-foot-seven, but he towered over her, easily six-foot-three, built like a man who had spent as much time in gym rings and dark alleys as he had in executive boardrooms.

“You’re right,” Dominico admitted, his baritone voice dropping an octave, becoming a resonant hum that vibrated in her chest. “I don't waste talent. And I certainly don't waste people who can bypass a three-million-dollar cybersecurity matrix in three hours.”

He reached out. Clarion flinched, but he didn't touch her skin. Instead, his thick fingers lightly caught the collar of her damp coat, smoothing down the fabric with terrifying deliberation.

“Liam Gallagher knows someone inside Holden Enterprises is bleeding the legitimate accounts,” Dominico said, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. “He has a mole in my financial division. For six months, I’ve been feeding that mole clean data while burying the war chest in the Cayman network you uncovered tonight. But now that you’ve found it, the mole will find it too within a week.”

“Fix your code,” Clarion said flatly.

“No,” Dominico countered. “If I fix the code, Gallagher gets suspicious. He’ll know I’m onto his leak. I need someone inside the system who can manipulate the data in real time. Someone who can construct a false trail—a financial phantom—that convinces Gallagher I’m bankrupting myself on a failed real estate venture in Dubai, while secretly funneling those forty million dollars directly into his shipping contracts.”

Clarion stared at him, horror dawning over her sharp mind. “You want me to commit federal financial fraud. You want me to build a secondary set of books for an active syndicate war.”

“I don't want you to, Clarion,” Dominico whispered, bending down until his lips were inches from her ear. His breath was warm, a shocking contrast to the icy demeanor he radiated. “You are going to do it. Because as of nine o'clock tonight, you don't work for Farnsworth and Co. anymore. You work for me.”

“And if I refuse?”

Dominico pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. The icy blue was absolute, unyielding, and totally devoid of mercy.

“If you refuse, I tell the Department of Justice that you were the one stealing from Holden Enterprises,” Dominico said softly. “I have Richard’s signature on a dozen affidavits naming you as the mastermind behind the Cayman accounts. You will be arrested before sunrise, your career will be destroyed, and you will spend the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary. Or... you stay here, in my house, under my protection, and you help me finish Gallagher.”

Clarion’s throat felt bone-dry. The trap was seamless. It had been laid out with the cold, mathematical precision she usually reserved for complex tax audits. He had taken her intelligence, her ambition, and her integrity, and turned them into the very bars of her cage.

“You’re insane,” she rasped.

“I am a man who lost his brother to a car bomb in broad daylight on Michigan Avenue,” Dominico said, his voice turning to sharp flint. “I am not insane, Miss Hayes. I am focused. Tommy!”

The heavy oak doors of the library swung open immediately. Tommy, the tall man who had brought her from the garage, stepped into the room, holding a sleek black leather weekend bag.

“Mr. Holden?” Tommy asked respectfully.

“Take Miss Hayes up to the east wing suites,” Dominico ordered, turning his back on her and walking toward the grand desk. “Ensure the doors are locked from the outside and the internal network access is restricted to the isolated terminal I set up. She begins her audit at seven tomorrow morning.”

Clarion watched his broad back as he picked up a glass of amber scotch from his desk. He didn't look back at her. He had already checked her off his list of problems—she was no longer a threat; she was an asset, acquired and cataloged.

“This way, Miss Hayes,” Tommy said quietly, gesturing toward the hallway.