Chapter 4 - The Debt of the Heart
Claire looked at the man kneeling before her. Dominic Vale, feared by every corrupt politician from Philadelphia to Trenton, a man who commanded an empire worth hundreds of millions, was looking up at her as if she held his very soul in the palm of her hand.
""I wanted you to see me,"" she whispered, her voice barely louder than the patter of rain against the windowpane. ""Not as Martin Bennett’s chubby, overlooked daughter who spent her weekends running soup kitchens. Not as an accessory to make the city council think you had reformed. I wanted you to see me. And I knew that if you knew about the bullet, every touch, every kiss, every kind word would just be an apology. I couldn't bear being an apology to you.""
Dominic closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against her knees. A single, silent tear broke free and fell onto the dark fabric of her dress.
""You foolish, beautiful woman,"" Dominic murmured against her lap. ""You think I married you for the city council? You think Dominic Vale gives a single damn about what a room full of drunken socialites thinks of his reputation?""
Claire blinked, stunned by the venom in his tone. ""You... you told me—""
""I lied!"" Dominic roared softly, lifting his head, his face raw with raw emotion. ""I lied because I was terrified! For six months before your father died, I used to sit in my car across the street from the waterfront shelter just to watch you hand out bread. I watched you laugh with the homeless veterans. I watched you fix a little girl's coat zipper with so much tenderness it made my chest ache. I was a dock thug who clawed his way to wealth with blood on his hands, and you were sunlight, Claire. Pure sunlight.""
He took her trembling hands and pressed them against his chest, right over his pounding heart.
""When your father died, I knew the sharks would circle you. I used his debt as an excuse because I was too much of a coward to court you like a normal man. I thought if I offered you protection and money, you would at least be safe under my roof. But every day you walked through this house, smiling politely, keeping your distance, sleeping in a separate room... it was killing me. And when you flinched every time I tried to hold you, I convinced myself that you saw the blood on my hands. I thought you were disgusted by me.""
""No,"" Claire gasped, tears streaming freely now. ""Never. Never, Dominic. It hurt so much... physically. The bullet splintered against my tenth rib. The doctor who pulled it out said the nerves fused together wrong. When anyone presses against that spot, it feels like an electric shock ripping through my spine.""
Dominic gently rose from his knees and sat beside her on the bed. With infinite care, he reached around and slid the oversized sweater down from her shoulders. Claire stiffened instinctively, bracing for the phantom shame that usually accompanied her body insecurities, but Dominic didn't hesitate.
He didn't look at the curve of her waist or the fullness of her hips with anything other than pure reverence. He leaned forward and pressed his lips directly to the jagged purple scar on her lower back.
Claire let out a ragged gasp, a mixture of shock and release. His lips were warm, soft, and entirely devoid of pressure. He kissed the wound once, twice, three times, trailing gentle kisses along the line of scar tissue until she was trembling, not from pain, but from the overwhelming wave of heat coursing through her blood.
""Never again,"" Dominic whispered against her bare skin. ""No more secrets. No more separate rooms. And tomorrow, we find the best neurosurgeon in the world to fix what was broken protecting me.""
""Dominic, wait,"" Claire said, turning slightly, her eyes widening as a sudden realization hit her. ""If Marcus told you about the clinic... did he tell you who paid the shooter?""
Dominic pulled back, his eyes narrowing into cold slits of ice. ""What are you talking about?""
""The night at the pier,"" Claire said, her voice dropping to a tense whisper. ""Before the shot was fired, I heard a voice on the radio in the crane tower. The sniper wasn't working for the New York syndicates, Dominic. He used a code name. He said: The Chairman is clear, take out the dock dog.""
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Dominic’s breath seized. The Chairman.
There was only one man in the entire state of Pennsylvania who went by that moniker in private circles. And that man was sitting on the board of the Vale Relief Foundation.
