Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Gate
Our dinner was interrupted by the soft, rhythmic buzzing of a phone on the table.
Dominic didn't pick it up immediately. He looked down at the encrypted screen, saw the name flashing on the display, and his entire demeanor changed in a fraction of a second. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by an iron mask of absolute authority.
“Excuse me for a moment, Nora,” he said smoothly, standing up and stepping toward the glass balcony doors.
He answered the call, standing with his back to me, his broad shoulders silhouette against the night sky over the river.
I couldn't hear his words, but I could hear the tone—short, sharp, cold commands that sounded like a commander giving orders on a battlefield.
When he turned back around thirty seconds later, his face was settled into hard, uncompromising lines.
“We have to go,” he said simply.
My heart spiked. “What’s wrong? Is it Lily?!”
“Lily is safe. She is at the penthouse with Maria and six guards,” Dominic said, walking back to the table and taking my coat from the back of my chair, helping me into it. “But Victor Rossi’s older brother, Marco, has just landed at JFK.”
“Marco Rossi?” I echoed, my mind racing.
“Marco is not like his brother,” Dominic explained as we walked rapidly down the wooden pier toward the waiting Lincoln. “Marco is an old-school operator from Sicily. He doesn't send street thugs in Suburbans. He operates through legal channels, political favors, and targeted economic pressure.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants the Third Ward distribution ports,” Dominic said, opening the car door for me. “And he has just filed an emergency injunction with the city land board to seize the pier we are standing on.”
As the Lincoln pulled out of the private lot, I saw four dark town cars pulling up to the main gate of the pier. A tall, silver-haired man in a heavy charcoal coat stepped out of the lead car, holding a thick leather briefcase, surrounded by four men in tailored suits.
Marco Rossi.
Through the tinted glass of the Lincoln, Marco’s dark, cold eyes locked onto our car as we passed through the gate. He lifted his hand in a slow, chilling gesture of respect—a silent declaration of war.
Dominic didn't look back. He pulled out his phone, dialing a single number.
“Gabriel,” Dominic spoke into the receiver, his voice flat as ice. “Initiate Phase Two on the Rossi assets in Milan and London. Freeze their accounts before the markets open tomorrow morning.”
He hung up, leaning his head back against the leather bench, closing his eyes for three seconds.
I reached out, placing my hand over his broad, scarred knuckles sitting on the armrest.
Dominic opened his eyes, looking down at my hand in surprise.
“You don't have to fight them alone, Dominic,” I said softly, my voice clear and steady in the quiet car.
May you like
A small, breathtaking smile touched his lips. He turned his hand over, intertwining his long fingers with mine, holding my grip tight.
“With you beside me, Nora,” he murmured, “I don't intend to fight at all. I intend to win.”
