Chapter 3 - The Room of Mirrors
The door to Suite 402 didn't open with a knock.
It flew off its brass hinges with a deafening crash that sent plaster dust billowing into the air.
Serena screamed, dropping the glass of San Pellegrino she had been sipping. The crystal shattered on the Persian rug. She was perched on the edge of the plush sofa, wrapped in a pale pink cashmere robe that Dominic had purchased for her on the Via Condotti in Rome.
Two Valente soldiers stood by the door, submachine guns resting across their tactical vests. Leo stood just behind them, his face impassive.
And then Dominic walked into the room.
Serena’s scream died in her throat.
The man walking toward her was not the indulgent, quiet billionaire who let her play with his hair while he signed multi-million-dollar real estate permits. This man was covered in drying, dark brown blood. His tie was gone, his collar torn open, his eyes hollowed out by an ancient, predatory fury that turned her spine to water.
"D-Dom?" she stammered, scrambling backward on the couch until her shoulders hit the wall. "Dom, you're scaring me! What happened to your clothes? Is... is your wife okay?"
Dominic didn't answer. He walked slowly to the small glass table in the center of the room, pulled out a high-backed armchair, turned it around, and sat down. He leaned his forearms across the backrest, watching her.
The silence lasted for thirty seconds. It was heavier than a lead casket.
"Dom, please talk to me," she whimpered, tears spilling down her immaculately contoured cheeks. "I didn't mean to be rude to her in the hall! I swear! I didn't know who she was! You never talk about her, you never—"
"How much did Mateo pay you?" Dominic asked.
The voice was conversational. Quiet. Pleasant, even.
Serena stopped crying instantly.
A terrible, suffocating freeze settled over the room. The color drained from her face so completely that her lip filler stood out like a bruised plum against marble.
"W-what?" she choked out.
"Don't make me repeat the question, Serena," Dominic said, tilting his head slightly. "You're not smart enough to play dumb with me. You don't have the stomach for it. How much did he wire Hayes Media Consulting to sit in that gallery in River North and spill champagne on my sleeve?"
Serena swallowed hard. Her gaze darted toward the door, but the two massive guards blocked every inch of the frame.
"Dom, I don't know what you're talking about! Mateo is your friend! He helped me get the apartment lease because I didn't have credit yet! He was just trying to help—"
Dominic moved so fast her eyes couldn't track it.
He was across the room before she could draw breath. His left hand clamped around her throat, lifting her three inches off the sofa cushions and slamming her back against the wall with enough force to rattle the framed art above her head.
He didn't squeeze hard enough to crush her trachea, but the pressure was absolute. She gasped, clawing at his iron wrist with french-manicured nails.
"My wife is currently in an operating room with her chest cracked open," Dominic whispered, bringing his face six inches from hers. She could smell the iron on his skin, the sharp tang of gunpowder, and the cold mint of his breath. "Her liver is lacerated. Her ribs are shattered. She has a bullet graze on her hip from crawling through a ditch while Tommy Russo’s brain was leaking onto the asphalt."
Serena’s eyes bulged with terror. "I... didn't... know..." she wheezed.
"You knew," Dominic snarled, his thumb pressing into the soft hollow beneath her jaw until her chin tilted up. "You knew you were being paid to keep me in bed. You knew that every time I had a meeting with the dock authorities, you suddenly had a migraine, or an anxiety attack, or an exclusive party in the Hamptons you simply *had* to attend. You kept me away from the phones. You kept me away from Clara."
"He... he said he would kill my sister!" Serena shrieked, the confession bursting from her lips in a torrent of snot and mascara. "He threatened my family, Dominic! Please! He said if I didn't keep you busy on Tuesday and Thursday nights, he would burn my parents' house in Naperville! I had no choice!"
Dominic stared into her eyes. He saw the truth there—and it disgusted him even more.
She wasn't a master spy. She wasn't an assassin. She was just a greedy, self-absorbed social climber who had taken the mob’s money, enjoyed the private jets, liked the champagne, and conveniently ignored the blood dripping from every single dollar.
"You had a choice," Dominic said softly. "You could have told me."
"You would have killed him!" she cried.
"Yes," Dominic agreed. "I would have. Eleven months ago. And Tommy Russo would be alive. And Clara would be sleeping in our bed."
He let go of her throat.
Serena collapsed onto the cushions, coughing violently, her chest heaving as she rubbed the red marks blooming across her skin.
Dominic pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers methodically, as if he had touched something rotting.
"Leo."
"Sir," the guard stepped forward.
"Take her to the lower basement of the meatpacking warehouse on 35th," Dominic ordered without looking back. "Strip her of every piece of jewelry, every coat, every shoe I ever bought her. Put her in county orange. If Clara survives tonight, Clara will decide whether she lives or dies. If Clara dies..."
Dominic paused at the doorway. He looked back at Serena, who was trembling so hard her teeth were clicking together.
"...if Clara dies, Leo, you give her to the pigs at the slaughterhouse. Starting with the hands that touched me."
Serena let out a high-pitched, curdling shriek as Leo grabbed her by the hair and dragged her off the sofa.
Dominic didn't look back. He walked out of the room, his eyes fixed on the red light above the surgical suite down the hall.
The red light was still on.
And down on Michigan Avenue, the faint wail of multiple sirens began to echo through the rain.
May you like
Mateo had arrived.
***
