Chapter 4 - The Sound of Broken Glass
“A locked door can always be kicked open,” Dominic said.
The voice cut through the quiet bedroom like a shard of broken glass.
Elena gasped, violently pushing Julian away as if she had touched a live wire. She spun around, her face instantly draining of every trace of color until she looked like a marble statue. Julian froze, his hand instinctively dropping toward the inside pocket of his jacket where a concealed holster rested against his ribs.
“Don’t,” Dominic said.
The single word carried the weight of an executioner’s axe.
Julian’s hand hovered half an inch from his jacket. He looked up at Dominic, measuring the distance, calculating the angle, and realizing with sudden, chilling clarity that the gun pointed at his chest was already steady, safety off, finger resting lightly on the trigger.
“Dominic,” Elena stammered, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the vanity table for support. “Darling... you’re... you’re supposed to be in Miami. The car—”
“The car is currently idling downstairs with a dead man waiting for a passenger who isn't coming,” Dominic interrupted, his voice terrifyingly calm. He stepped further into the bedroom, his dark eyes sweeping over the opulent room—the silk drapes, the Persian rugs, the expensive art on the walls—all purchased with blood and guarded by a man who had trusted the wrong woman. “You ordered a custom trap, El. I figured I owed you the courtesy of a personal inspection.”
Julian Vane forced a tight, brittle smile onto his face, trying to recover his corporate poise. “Easy, Bellini. Let’s not be rash. This is business. You’re a smart man—you know when a market shifts. The council in Chicago wanted a change in management. It’s nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal,” Dominic repeated softly. He took another step forward, the muzzle of his gun never wavering from Julian’s heart. “You sleep in my bed, you plot my murder with my wife, you try to steal my life’s work, and you call it business?”
“If you kill me, the entire Chicago syndicate declares open war on New Jersey by noon,” Julian snarled, dropping the polite facade as panic began to bleed into his voice. “Your ports will burn. Your men will be hunted down in every diner from Newark to Atlantic City. You can’t survive a two-front war, Dominic!”
“Who said anything about a war?” Dominic asked.
Before Julian could react, the heavy oak doors of the bedroom burst open behind Dominic.
Marcus, Dominic’s head of security—the real Marcus, who had been investigating the financial leaks within the syndicate for weeks—strode into the room accompanied by four armed guards. Within three seconds, Julian Vane was disarmed, slammed face-first against the silk-paneled wall, and zip-tied with clinical efficiency.
Elena shrieked, backing away until her spine hit the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the front drive.
“No,” she whispered, staring wildly at Marcus, then back at Dominic. “Dominic, you can’t do this. I’m your wife! We’re partners!”
“You were an employee who tried to liquidate the boss,” Dominic said coldly. He turned to Marcus. “Take Vane down to the basement vault. Hold him there until the Chicago delegation arrives for the summit tomorrow. I have a few adjustments to make to our negotiating strategy.”
“And her?” Marcus asked, casting a brief, disgusted glance at Elena.
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Dominic looked at his wife—the woman who had plotted his execution over breakfast, who had smiled while signing away his life. The fury inside him was vast and bottomless, but looking at her now, he didn't feel rage. He felt an overwhelming, purifying emptiness.
“Pack her bags,” Dominic commanded quietly. “Put her in the back of that black Cadillac sitting by the fountain. Send her to her father’s estate in Grosse Pointe with a single message: if she ever crosses the New Jersey state line again, the next car she gets into won't stop at the river.”
