Chapter 4 - The Scent of Treachery
By midnight, Clara had been moved to the master suite on the third floor—a room she had never stepped foot in. For six months, Dominic had kept her in the guest wing at the far end of the west corridor, maintaining a polite, respectful distance that Clara had misinterpreted as cold indifference. She had assumed he viewed her as a business transaction, an annoying collateral asset he was obligated to keep alive.
The master bedroom was warm, smelling of rich sandalwood and rain. Dr. Rossi had applied specialized silver-sulfadiazine burn dressings to both of Clara’s arms, wrapping them in soft, sterile white bandages from wrist to elbow. Exhausted from pain and the mild sedative the doctor had administered, Clara had fallen into a deep, restless sleep against the charcoal-gray silk sheets.
Dominic stood by the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows, watching the autumn rain slash against the glass. He had discarded his suit jacket, rolling his white linen sleeves up to his elbows. Matteo stepped through the double doors, moving like a ghost across the plush rug.
""Don Dominic,"" Matteo murmured, dipping his head.
""Give me the report.""
""You were right. At eleven-fifteen, three unmarked shipping trucks entered our north terminal. Falcone's men. They had security codes to the perimeter gate and the manifest for the container holding the luxury imports from Naples."" Matteo paused, hesitating. ""The codes used to access the gate were generated from the terminal in the library downstairs. Two hours ago.""
Dominic took a slow sip of bourbon from a heavy crystal tumbler. The amber liquid burned down his throat, but it couldn't touch the volcanic rage simmering in his chest. ""My mother.""
""Yes, Boss. Beatrice’s personal login. Furthermore, phone records from the burner we intercepted show four calls to Silvio Falcone over the last seventy-two hours. She promised him the docks in exchange for eliminating your inner circle and forcing you into an alliance with Falcone’s niece.""
Dominic set the glass down on the marble console table with a sharp clink. ""She wants a puppet Don she can control, just like she controlled my father before his heart gave out. She thinks Clara makes me weak. She thinks because Clara doesn't have an army or a trust fund, she has no value.""
Dominic turned and walked slowly toward the king-sized bed. He looked down at Clara's pale face, framed by messy dark curls against the pillows. She looked so fragile, yet she had carried a boiling, thirty-pound tray across a room of armed killers with third-degree burns without dropping it until her body literally shut down. That wasn't weakness. That was a quiet, terrifying resilience that none of the pampered women in his family could ever comprehend.
""Where is my sister?"" Dominic asked without looking away from Clara.
""Vivian is in her suite, trying on dresses for the Thanksgiving gala tomorrow night. She seems entirely unaware of Beatrice's moves with Falcone.""
""Vivian is an idiot,"" Dominic said coldly. ""A spoiled child whose vanity has made her dangerous. And my mother is a traitor to the Moretti name.""
Suddenly, Clara stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips as she shifted against the pillows. Her bandaged arm brushed against the duvet, and her face crumpled in pain. Dominic immediately moved to the bedside, sitting gently on the edge of the mattress. He placed his large, warm hand lightly over her forehead, soothing the stray hairs away from her damp skin.
""Shh,"" he murmured, his voice softer than Matteo had ever heard it in twelve years of service. ""Go back to sleep, little bird. The kitchen is closed.""
Clara’s eyelids fluttered open slightly. ""Dominic...?""
""I’m here.""
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""I ruined your dinner. Your mother... she said you’d throw me back onto the street.""
Dominic leaned down, his eyes dark with an emotion that terrified him in its intensity. ""My mother is leaving this house before sunrise, Clara. You are the only mistress of this estate. Now rest.""
