Chapter 4 - The Shadow on the Wall
I couldn't sleep.
The guest bedroom was larger than my entire apartment on Eighty-Sixth Street. Lily was fast asleep in the center of a king-sized bed, buried under mountains of white goose-down pillows, Mr. Buttons tucked safely beneath her arm. She looked peaceful, her breathing deep and even, the cold storm outside forgotten.
I had taken a shower, scrubbing six hours of hospital grime from my skin, and put on a oversized grey cashmere sweater and sweatpants that Maria had left for me.
It was 2:30 a.m.
I pulled open the sheer white curtains of the living room windows, looking out over the rain-soaked canopy of Central Park. The city stretched out below me like a grid of yellow diamond lights, silent, beautiful, and cold.
“You should be resting, Doctor.”
I didn't jump. I had heard the soft click of leather shoes against the oak floor three seconds earlier.
Dominic was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair in the corner of the dark library adjacent to the living room. He had taken off his suit jacket, rolling his white shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms wrapped in dark, intricate tattoos that extended down to his wrists—designs of dragons, ropes, and Latin script that I couldn't quite read in the shadows.
A single crystal glass of amber bourbon sat on the side table beside him.
“I thought you left,” I said, stepping closer to the edge of the library doorway.
“I don't leave when people I am protecting are under my roof,” Dominic said quietly. He leaned back, his eyes catching the ambient light from the city windows. “Your blood pressure is elevated. I can hear your breathing from across the room.”
“I’m an ER physician, Dominic,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “I spend my life dealing with structural trauma. I know how to read danger.”
“And you think I am the danger?”
“You disabled a car in midtown tonight,” I reminded him flatly. “You own half the city. You have men stationed in the lobby with guns under their coats. You are the definition of danger.”
Dominic picked up his glass of bourbon, swirling the ice gently against the crystal. The soft clink was the only sound in the vast apartment.
“Danger is relative, Nora,” he said smoothly. “The men who followed you tonight were sent by a man named Victor Rossi. Victor believes that because my father died six months ago, the Moretti family has become soft. He wants to take over the distribution hubs along the Hudson River.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“Victor knows about Julian,” Dominic said, his voice turning cold as granite. “He knows that Julian is my only weakness. He also knows that Arthur Vance set up a meeting between me and a certain doctor from St. Catherine’s. Victor thought that if he could put pressure on you, he could make me step aside.”
My breath caught in my throat. “He knows where I live?”
“He did,” Dominic corrected softly. “As of twenty minutes ago, Victor Rossi’s operations in Brooklyn have been permanently closed. His lieutenants have been taken into custody by federal authorities, and Victor himself is currently on a private cargo boat heading toward South America.”
I stared at him in utter disbelief. “You... you had him deported?”
“I had him erased from this city,” Dominic said, taking a slow sip of his drink. “He will not return. Your apartment on Eighty-Sixth Street is clear. Your hospital is secure.”
I took a deep breath, pressing my hand against my forehead, feeling a headache beginning to bloom behind my temples.
“This is insane,” I whispered. “This is like something out of a crime movie. I am a pediatrician’s daughter from Ohio. I treat ear infections and gunshot wounds. I don't belong in this!”
Dominic stood up from his chair.
He walked over to where I stood, his tall, broad frame blocking out the light from the windows. He stopped two feet away from me, his presence heavy, magnetic, and completely overwhelming.
“You belong wherever you are safe, Nora,” he said softly, looking down into my eyes. “You spent three years carrying the weight of your daughter, your husband’s debts, and a mountain of hospital shifts all by yourself. You think no one notices how tired you are. But I see it.”
He raised his hand, his calloused thumb gently brushing against the dark circle beneath my left eye. His touch was warm, surprisingly soft for a man whose hands were built for violence.
“Let me carry the weight for a while,” Dominic murmured, his voice a low velvet thread in the quiet dark. “Just for a little while.”
I looked up into his light hazel eyes, feeling a strange, terrifying warmth bloom in my chest—a feeling I hadn't felt since my husband died three years ago.
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“Why?” I whispered, my heart pounding violently.
“Because,” Dominic said, his face inches from mine, “you saved my brother’s life six years ago. And tonight... your daughter saved mine.”
