Part 4: The Terms of Captivity
By afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a crisp, biting cold. Norah had been given a luxurious guest room adjacent to Clara’s, complete with a private bath and a wardrobe filled with expensive, brand-new clothes that still had the tags on them. She ignored the silk dresses and tailored trousers, choosing instead a simple gray sweater and a pair of dark jeans. She washed her face, but she kept her old blue apron folded neatly on the nightstand.
A knock on the door summoned her down to Dominic’s private study.
The study was a masculine sanctuary of dark mahogany, leather, and the heavy scent of scotch and expensive tobacco. Dominic sat behind a massive desk, a stack of folders spread before him. He had changed into a fresh black suit, looking every bit the ruthless monarch.
"Sit," he commanded without looking up.
Norah walked in, but she chose to remain standing, crossing her arms over her chest. "I prefer to stand."
Dominic paused, his fountain pen hovering over a document. He lifted his head, his pale eyes fixing her with a gaze that had made grown men beg for their lives. "As you wish." He closed the folder with a sharp snap. "I have run a background check on you, Norah Hale. Twenty-four. Father unknown. Mother died of cancer fourteen months ago at Bellevue Hospital. You have no living relatives, no outstanding criminal record, and forty-two dollars in your savings account."
Norah felt a hot flush of shame and anger crawl up her neck. "Did you enjoy digging through my misery?"
"I enjoy knowing exactly who is sleeping under the same roof as my daughter," Dominic replied coldly. "Your mother’s medical bills wiped out your inheritance. You lost your apartment. You took the night shift at Bellamy because it paid cash under the table and allowed you to avoid the world. You are a ghost, Norah. Nobody is looking for you."
"That doesn't give you the right to kidnap me!"
"I didn't kidnap you. I salvaged you," Dominic said, leaning back in his leather chair. "The Ivanov brat—the man you hit with the iron—is currently in our basement. He confirmed that his orders were to eliminate Clara to break me. He also confirmed that they saw your face. If I let you walk out those gates, you would be dead before you reached the subway."
Norah swallowed hard, the cold truth of his words chilling her to the bone. "So what am I? Your prisoner?"
"You are Clara’s nanny," Dominic corrected. "You will live here. You will eat here. You will ensure my daughter stays safe and continues to speak. In return, I will pay off your mother’s remaining medical debts. I will open a trust fund in your name that will ensure you never have to count quarters in a dingy laundry room for the rest of your life. And most importantly, my men will keep you alive."
"And what if I say no?" Norah challenged, her voice trembling. "What if I refuse to play 'Mama' to a mafia princess?"
Dominic stood up. He walked around the desk, his massive frame towering over her once again. He stopped so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"You won't say no," Dominic said softly, his voice carrying that terrifyingly calm tone from the laundry mat. "Because I saw the way you looked at her when you threw that cart. You have a good heart, Norah. You won't abandon a broken child. And because you know that inside these walls, you are safe from the wolves outside. Even if the biggest wolf is standing right in front of you."
Before Norah could formulate a stinging retort, the heavy oak doors of the study creaked open.
Clara stood there, clutching her gray cloth rabbit. She looked small, lost, and terrified in the vast doorway. She looked past her father, her big brown eyes locking directly onto Norah.
"Mama," the little girl whispered, her lower lip trembling. "I had a bad dream."
Dominic looked down at his daughter, then back at Norah, a silent command in his silver eyes.
Norah looked at the powerful, dangerous man, then at the innocent child caught in the crossfire of his sins. The anger evaporated from her chest, replaced by a profound, aching pity. She bypassed Dominic completely, dropping to her knees on the Persian rug and opening her arms.
"Come here, sweetheart," Norah said softly.
Clara broke into a run, throwing her small body into Norah’s embrace. Norah scooped her up, burying her face in the child’s soft hair. Over Clara’s shoulder, she glared at Dominic Bellini.
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"I accept the job," Norah said, her voice hard as steel. "But let one thing be clear: I am doing this for her. Not for you. And the moment she is safe, and the moment she doesn't need me anymore, I am leaving."
Dominic watched them, his expression unreadable, a dark shadow crossing his handsome features. "We will see, laundry girl. We will see."
