Chapter 3 - Blood in the Water
By the third week, the war that Dominic had warned me about arrived at our doorstep.
It started on a cold, rainy Wednesday night.
I was sitting in the small library on the second floor, a room I had claimed as my own sanctuary. It was filled with old, leather-bound classics and smelled of vanilla and aged paper. I had been reading an old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, trying to lose myself in someone else’s quest for vengeance so I didn't have to think about my own.
Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out.
The silence of the house was instantly replaced by the deep, rhythmic thrum of the emergency generators kicking in behind the stone walls. A second later, the sharp, staccato sound of gunfire erupted from the south side of the estate.
Pop-pop-pop-pop.
It was distant, but unmistakable.
I froze, the book slipping from my fingers and hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. My heart hammered against my ribs, the memory of the diner shootout rushing back with the force of a physical blow. The smell of copper, the sound of breaking glass, the white-hot agony in my shoulder—it all flooded my senses until I could barely breathe.
"Emma!"
The library door burst open.
Dominic stood in the doorway, a matte-black automatic pistol in his right hand, his charcoal shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked like a creature born from the dark—lethal, focused, and utterly terrifying.
"Get down," he commanded, rushing across the room and grabbing me by my good arm. He pulled me off the sofa and dragged me down into the narrow space between the heavy oak desk and the wall.
"What is happening?" I gasped, my voice shaking so badly I could barely form the words.
"Calder," Dominic growled, his eyes fixed on the door. "He bypassed the outer perimeter. He has three teams on the grounds."
"Sophie—"
"Teresa has her in the safe room beneath the pantry," Dominic said, his grip on my shoulder tightening, his thumb rubbing against my skin in a gesture that was surprisingly reassuring. "She is safe. But they are heading toward this wing. They know you are here."
"How?" I whispered.
"The ring," Dominic said, his eyes flicking to my left hand. "We had to take you to a private clinic in the city to have your stitches checked last week. Someone saw the sapphire. Calder knows I gave you the Sovereign. He knows you are my vulnerability."
"I am not your vulnerability!" I cried, trying to pull away from him. "I am a waitress from Port Ash!"
"Not anymore," Dominic said.
A loud crash echoed from the hallway outside. The sound of heavy footsteps on the wooden floorboards followed, accompanied by the harsh, metallic click of a weapon being loaded.
"Dominic Vale!" a voice shouted from the corridor. It was a rough, wet voice, heavy with a thick accent. "Come out, Don! Grant Calder sends his regards!"
Dominic didn't answer. He didn't move. He leaned his back against the side of the desk, his breathing perfectly slow, perfectly controlled. He looked at me, his dark eyes holding mine in the dim, amber light of the emergency bulbs.
"Stay here," he whispered. "Do not move. No matter what you hear."
"Dominic, no—"
Before I could finish, Dominic rolled out from behind the desk.
The world exploded into noise.
The gunfire was deafening inside the small library. The glass of the display cases shattered, raining down in a sharp, glittering storm. I curled into a tight ball, my hands clamped over my ears, my cheek pressed against the dusty floorboards.
I heard a man scream—a wet, gurgling sound that cut off abruptly.
I heard the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
Then, there was only the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps, followed by the dry, metallic click of an empty magazine hitting the wood.
"Dominic!" another voice roared from the doorway.
I peeked out from behind the desk.
A large man in a muddy black tactical vest was standing in the doorway, his shotgun pointed directly at the space where Dominic had been crouching. Dominic was on his knees, his gun empty, his hand reaching for the spare magazine on his belt.
He wasn't going to make it.
The man in the vest smiled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
I didn't think about it. I didn't think about the fact that I was twenty-four, or that I was terrified of dying, or that these men were monsters.
I grabbed the heavy bronze bust of Shakespeare that sat on the low shelf of the desk—a piece of metal that must have weighed fifteen pounds—and threw it with everything I had left in my good arm.
It didn't hit him in the head. It hit him in the knee.
Crack.
The man let out a sharp howl of pain, his shot going wide and blasting a massive hole in the plaster ceiling. He stumbled back, his balance ruined.
In that split second, Dominic moved.
He lunged forward, his body striking the man like a battering ram. They went down in a heap of limbs and tearing fabric. Dominic’s hands found the man’s throat, his fingers digging in with a brutal, terrifying strength until the man’s struggles slowly ceased, his eyes rolling back into his head.
The room went completely still.
Dominic remained on top of the man for several seconds, his chest heaving, his dark hair tangled over his forehead. Then, slowly, he stood up.
He didn't look at the dead man. He didn't look at the shattered glass.
He walked over to the desk, knelt down in front of me, and pulled me out of the corner. His hands were covered in soot and blood, but when he touched my face, his fingers were incredibly gentle.
"You threw a bookend at a hitman," he said, a tiny, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips.
"It was Shakespeare," I sobbed, my tears finally spilling over. "And he was going to kill you."
May you like
Dominic looked at me, his dark eyes turning soft, almost reverent. He reached out and took my left hand, his thumb tracing the heavy sapphire ring.
"I told you, Emma," he whispered, his forehead leaning against mine. "You are a variable I cannot control. But I think... I think you are the only variable that matters."
