Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips at the Head of the Table
""You cooked this meal?"" Dominic asked, his tone dangerously flat, stripping the atmosphere of whatever festive warmth had remained.
Vivian’s face lost every shred of color. Her glossy lips parted, but no sound emerged for three agonizing seconds. ""I... I oversaw the arrangements, Dominic. You know how chaotic holidays can be—""
""Did you touch an oven today, Vivian?"" Dominic pressed, not raising his voice, which only made the hardened killers around the table glance nervously toward the exits. ""Did you lift a pan? Did you season a single roast?""
""Dominic, please!"" Beatrice interrupted sharply, placing her manicured hands flat on the linen tablecloth. ""We are not going to ruin Thanksgiving dinner and humiliate your sister in front of our capos over domestic clumsiness. Clara is clumsy by nature. She clearly had an accident and chose not to speak up. Take your seat.""
Clara kept her eyes locked on the floral medallion in the parquet floor. The shame was suffocating, an instinct beaten into her by months of cold glances and snide remarks from the Moretti women. She opened her mouth to apologize, to take the blame, to fade into the wallpaper as she always did.
Instead of sitting, Dominic kicked his own heavy armchair back. He reached down, grabbed Clara by her uninjured shoulder, and gently pulled her forward.
""Sit,"" he told her.
Clara gasped softly, her wide hazel eyes darting around the circle of staring men. ""Dominic, no... that’s your chair. I can’t—""
""It is a chair, Clara. Sit down."" His voice cracked like a whip, yet when his hand rested against her lower back, the pressure was unmistakably protective. When she hesitated, he lowered his tone, speaking directly to her ear. ""Please.""
Trembling, Clara sat in the seat of the Don. The throne of the family syndicate felt cold against her back, but the room instantly shifted its center of gravity. For the first time since she had walked into this fortress six months ago carrying a single cardboard suitcase, she was not invisible.
""Matteo,"" Dominic barked toward the double doors.
His chief enforcer, a hulking man who had stood silent guard against the wall, snapped to attention. ""Boss?""
""Clear the back entrance. Bring Dr. Rossi up here right now. If he takes more than ten minutes, burn his clinic down.""
""Right away, Don Dominic."" Matteo vanished into the foyer.
Dominic knelt on the hard floor beside Clara’s chair. To the twenty-two men watching, seeing the undisputed ruler of the East Coast underworld sink to one knee on a carpet was like watching a mountain crumble. He didn't touch the blistered flesh, knowing the agony it would cause, but his dark eyes raked over every inch of the damage. Clara’s skin was raw, blistering, and clearly hours old, rubbed raw by the coarse velvet Beatrice had made her wear.
""How long have you had these?"" Dominic asked softly.
""Since... since eight this morning,"" she whispered, a tear finally spilling over her dark lashes. ""The door mechanism jammed on the commercial range. Beatrice said the bird couldn't wait.""
Dominic's jaw clenched until the muscle ticked violently beneath his tan skin. Slowly, his head turned toward the end of the table. Beatrice was sitting stone-faced, but beneath the fringe of her ivory linen napkin, her diamond-clad thumbs were furiously tapping against a discreet encrypted burner phone. Dominic’s eyes narrowed, tracking the reflection of the screen off her heavy water goblet.
A name flashed before Beatrice hastily slipped the device into the pocket of her tailored skirt.
May you like
Silvio Falcone.
Dominic stood up, his spine rigid. The Falcone syndicate had been encroaching on their dockside warehouses for three months, waiting for a fracture in the Moretti armor. Dominic had assumed the leak was coming from a low-level soldier or a bribed port authority official. He had never imagined the viper was sitting at his right hand, drinking his wine and starving his wife.
