Chapter 3 - The Farmhouse Door
The car crunched over the gravel driveway of the Carter homestead precisely at four o'clock. The white-painted farmhouse was peeling at the trim, the barn roof sagged slightly to the left, and an old rusted pickup truck sat parked by the porch like a grumpy sentinel.
Through the front screen door, a shadow moved.
Sophia’s hand gripped the door handle. Her palms were ice cold. "Remember," she whispered to Dominic. "No smart remarks, no flexing your wealth, and if my dad offers you moonshine, you pretend it tastes like heaven."
Dominic cut the engine, turned to her, and gave a slow, infuriating smile. "I've ingested poisons in foreign capitals that tasted better than rural moonshine, Sophia. I think I can handle your father's hospitality."
Before Sophia could retort, the screen door swung open with a loud, familiar squeak.
Standing on the porch was Henry Carter. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a plaid flannel shirt tucked into faded denim, his hair iron-gray and cropped short. His eyes swept over the rented sedan with immediate suspicion, landing squarely on Dominic as he stepped out of the driver's side.
"Sophia," Henry barked, his voice carrying across the yard like a shotgun blast. "You're late. Your mother’s been asking for you since noon."
Sophia stepped out of the car, lifting a sleeping Lily into her arms. "We hit traffic, Dad. I'm sorry."
Henry’s gaze shifted from his daughter to Dominic, who had walked around the hood of the car to stand beside Sophia. Dominic towered over Henry by a couple of inches, his presence instantly altering the gravity of the yard. Even dressed in a plain black sweater and dark jeans, Dominic radiated an undeniable, predatory authority.
"And who’s this?" Henry demanded, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "Didn't see a ring on your finger when you left the city, Soph."
Dominic stepped forward, extending a hand with easy, practiced grace. "Dominic Moretti, Mr. Carter. It’s an honor to finally meet you."
Henry didn't take the hand. Instead, his eyes narrowed, boring into Dominic’s face, searching for weaknesses, titles, or lies. "Moretti. That's an Italian name. What do you do in the city, Mr. Moretti?"
"I manage assets," Dominic said smoothly, his hand dropping back to his side without a trace of offense. "Logistics, investments. Quiet work."
"Sounds like paper-shuffling to me," Henry grunted, spitting a piece of straw onto the grass. "We don't get many city slickers out here unless they're trying to buy up the valley for a housing development. If you're here to talk to me about selling the north acreage, you can turn your car right back around."
"I'm not here for land, Mr. Carter," Dominic replied, his voice dropping into that quiet, velvety tone that made grown men in Manhattan double-check their contracts. "I'm here because Sophia asked me to be."
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Sophia held her breath, waiting for the explosion. But Henry just stared at Dominic for a long, agonizing moment, sensing something dangerous beneath the polite facade that he couldn't quite name.
"Hmph," Henry spat, turning back toward the door. "Well, don't just stand there like a pair of city statues. Margaret’s waiting. And wipe your boots before you step on my porch."
