Chapter 5 - The War in Queens
The atmosphere inside the penthouse changed in an instant.
The quiet, luxurious sanctuary was gone, replaced by the grim reality of a war council. Within fifteen minutes, six men in tactical suits arrived through the private elevator, carrying heavy leather cases containing automatic weapons, encrypted radios, and tactical armor.
Dominic stood at the center of the living room, wearing a dark Kevlar vest under his tactical jacket, pointing at a digital map displayed on his desk monitor.
"Arthur was picked up near Pier 17," Dominic said, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and icy. "Richard Ashford thinks he can use my head butler to force me back to the negotiating table. He wants the port rights, and he thinks he can leverage Arthur's life to get them."
Vance, the lead tactical officer, adjusted his ear piece. "Boss, Ashford’s private security team has fortified an abandoned cold-storage warehouse near the creek in Queens. They have at least twelve armed guards on site."
"Then twelve men are going to die tonight," Dominic said quietly.
I stood near the kitchen doorway, my hands trembling as I held a tray of water glasses. I looked at Dominic—not as the wealthy billionaire who owned a Park Avenue penthouse, but as the ruthless lord of the Manhattan underworld who was ready to tear the city apart to save a loyal servant.
Dominic turned his head and caught my eye. He walked over to where I stood, stopping inches away.
"You will stay here, Grace," he commanded. "The penthouse security system is on total lockdown. The windows are bulletproof steel-reinforced glass, and there are four armed guards outside the elevator doors. No one comes in, no one goes out."
"Mr. Mercer..." My voice was a trembling whisper. I reached out involuntarily, my fingers catching the sleeve of his dark tactical jacket. "Please... be careful. Arthur is an old man."
Dominic looked down at my hand resting on his arm. His gray eyes softened for a fraction of a second.
"Arthur has been with my family for thirty years," Dominic said gently. "I don't leave my people behind. Ever."
He placed his large hand over mine, squeezing my fingers once with reassuring strength.
"Lock the interior doors after we leave," he added. "I will return by midnight."
He turned on his heel, signaled to Vance and his tactical team, and stepped into the elevator. The silver doors slid shut, leaving me alone in the silent, sprawling apartment.
The next three hours were the longest of my life.
I paced the black marble floor of the living room, my eyes constantly darting to the digital clock on the wall. 9:00 p.m. 10:00 p.m. 11:00 p.m.
The rain outside intensified, lashing against the glass walls in sheets of dark water. High above Park Avenue, the storm seemed to mirror the violence erupting in the dark, industrialized corners of Queens.
At 11:42 p.m., the private elevator chimed.
I rushed across the living room as the silver doors slid open.
Dominic stepped out, supported by Vance. His white dress shirt under his torn tactical jacket was stained with dark, heavy blood on his left side. His jaw was bruised, and gashes ran across his knuckles.
Behind them, two guards carried Arthur, who was pale, shaken, but conscious, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket.
"Arthur!" I gasped, rushing forward to help support the old butler.
"I am fine, Miss Grace," Arthur rasped weakly, offering a brave, faint smile. "Just a few bruises... Mr. Mercer arrived in time."
"Get Arthur to the medical room in the east wing," Dominic commanded Vance, his voice strained and heavy with pain. "Call Dr. Evans to check his ribs."
"Boss, you need medical attention yourself," Vance urged, looking at the dark red stain spreading across Dominic’s shirt. "That side wound—"
"I said take care of Arthur!" Dominic barked, his gray eyes flashing with fierce authority.
Vance nodded respectfully and guided Arthur down the hallway toward the east wing.
Dominic swayed slightly, his right hand gripping the edge of the marble console table to steady himself. His face was pale, sweat glistening on his forehead under the warm hallway lights.
I didn't hesitate. My nursing school training took over instantly.
"Sit down, Dominic!" I commanded, dropping the formal 'Mr. Mercer' for the first time.
I grabbed his arm, supporting his heavy frame as I led him to the broad leather sofa in the center of the living room. He sank into the cushions with a low, pained groan, his left hand pressing tightly against his ribs.
"It’s just a graze," he muttered, his eyes half-closed.
"Be quiet and let me look," I said firmly, running to the kitchen to fetch the emergency surgical kit, sterile gauze, antiseptic, and warm water I had located during my cleaning shifts.
I dropped to my knees beside the sofa, opening the medical kit. With nimble, precise fingers, I unzipped his tactical jacket and carefully unbuttoned his bloody shirt, pulling the fabric away from his skin.
A deep, jagged knife wound stretched six inches across his left rib cage. Blood was welling up rapidly, but it was dark red, not bright arterial red.
"The blade missed the lung," I breathed a sigh of relief, rapidly applying pressure with sterile gauze. "It’s a clean laceration, but it needs twelve stitches immediately."
Dominic leaned his head back against the leather cushions, his dark gray eyes tracking my face as I worked. Despite the excruciating pain he must have been feeling, he didn't make a single sound.
"You have steady hands, Grace," he murmured softly.
"I spent three years training to be a trauma nurse before my mother got sick," I said, pouring antiseptic over the wound.
Dominic winced slightly, his fingers digging into the leather cushion, but his eyes never left mine. "You should have finished your degree."
"I couldn't afford the final semester," I whispered, preparing the surgical needle and dark thread. "This is going to hurt. I don't have local anesthetic."
"Do it," he commanded quietly.
I took a deep breath, braced my wrist, and began stitching the edges of the wound together with neat, precise medical sutures.
The room was completely quiet, save for the crackle of the rain outside and our synchronized breathing. Every time the needle pierced his skin, I could feel the tension radiating from his muscular frame, yet he remained perfectly still, enduring the pain with terrifying stoicism.
As I tied off the final knot and cleaned the remaining blood from his chest, I felt his hand gently reach out and rest on top of mine.
I stopped, looking up into his face.
Our eyes locked in the dim, warm light of the room. He was a man who commanded an empire built on violence and power, a man feared by the most dangerous criminals in New York. Yet looking down at his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my fingers, I felt no fear.
Only a strange, profound warmth that made my breath catch in my throat.
"Arthur told me what happened in Queens," I whispered softly. "You walked into that warehouse alone before Vance's team breached the back doors. You fought three armed men to get to Arthur."
"I told you," Dominic said softly, his thumbs gently tracing the back of my hand. "No one touches what belongs to me."
"I am not a piece of property, Dominic," I said, my voice barely audible.
May you like
Dominic leaned forward slightly, his face inches from mine. The scent of rain, gunpowder, and expensive sandalwood cologne clung to his skin.
"No, Grace," he whispered, his gray eyes burning with an intensity that made my heart leap into my throat. "You are not property. You are the only real thing in this entire damned city."
