Chapter 12 - The Storm on the Sound
By Friday night, the barometer dropped precipitously, and the Atlantic unleashed a classic New England nor'easter. Heavy sheets of rain slammed against the massive leaded glass windows of Hallowmere Manor, and the wind shrieked through the stone chimneys like a trapped animal.
Inside the grand kitchen, however, the atmosphere was warm and fragrant with the rich, comforting scent of Rosa's slow-cooked osso buco and garlic polenta.
Lily was sitting at the massive oak island, completely absorbed in building an elaborate castle out of wooden blocks while the golden retriever slept soundly across her small sneakers.
"Eat your carrots, little mouse," Rosa scolded affectionately in her thick Sicilian accent, sliding a small plate toward Lily. "You can't build a strong castle if you don't eat your foundation."
Corrie laughed, pouring a cup of espresso for Domenico, who stood by the arched window watching the violent lightning flash across the churning dark waters of the sound.
"The ferry service to the mainland was suspended an hour ago," Domenico noted, his voice calm amidst the howling wind outside. "Looks like we're all trapped here for the weekend."
"Terrible news," Corrie teased lightly, handing him the cup. "How will the underworld survive without your supervision for forty-eight hours?"
"The underworld will have to wait," Domenico replied, taking a sip of the dark coffee. His eyes lingered on her face, warm and steady. "I have more important matters to attend to."
Around 9:30 PM, after Lily had finally drifted off to sleep upstairs, tucked safely beneath her heavy quilt with the gold-leaf fairy tale book resting on her nightstand, Corrie and Domenico walked out onto the enclosed stone veranda that overlooked the southern cliffs.
The storm was magnificent in its fury. Lightning tore across the sky in jagged purple veins, illuminating the crashing whitecaps far below, while the wind rattled the heavy iron frames of the glass enclosure.
Corrie pulled her woolen cardigan tighter around her shoulders, shivering slightly from the sudden draft.
Without a word, Domenico slipped off his dark blazer and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body, carrying that familiar, clean scent of cedar and rain.
"You're going to catch a cold," Corrie said softly, though she didn't push the jacket away.
"I'm immune to drafts," Domenico replied, stepping closer so that his shoulder brushed hers against the glass. He turned his head, looking down at her in the dim ambient light spilling from the conservatory. "Corrie."
She turned to face him, her breath catching in her throat as the storm raged outside.
"When I found you kneeling on that third-floor landing four months ago," Domenico said, his voice dropping into a low, intense rhythm that drowned out the wind, "with the rain outside and Whitlock standing over you... do you know what I was thinking?"
"That I was making a mess of your oak floor," Corrie whispered, a faint smile touching her lips.
"I was thinking," Domenico corrected softly, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair away from her cheek, his thumb lingering against her jawline, "that I had spent my entire life surrounded by people who wanted to take things from me. And in that exact second, I knew I would burn every syndicate from Boston to New York to the ground before I ever let anyone touch you again."
May you like
Corrie didn't speak. She leaned up slightly, closing the infinitesimal distance between them, and pressed her lips to his.
It wasn't a tentative kiss born of fear or survival. It was fierce, steady, and absolute—anchored as firmly against the rising storm as the granite cliffs beneath their feet.
