Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Iron
The armored SUV tore through the midnight rain, bypassing Manhattan entirely and heading north toward the heavily wooded hills of Westchester.
For forty minutes, nobody spoke.
Dominic sat on the floor opposite me the entire way. He didn't move back to his seat. He stayed on his knees, his dark eyes glued to the twins as they slowly calmed down in my arms, lulled by the gentle vibration of the engine. Every few minutes, he would open his mouth as if to speak, only to shut it again, tortured by his own thoughts.
When the SUV finally slowed down, it turned off a dark county road onto a winding private driveway surrounded by ten-foot stone walls topped with razor wire and security cameras. A massive iron gate swung open, allowing us entrance into the grounds of a secluded estate I had never seen before.
This wasn't our old penthouse in Tribeca. This was a fortress.
“Where are we?” I asked, my voice cold as ice as the vehicle came to a stop beneath a concrete portico.
“Safehouse,” Dominic said, his voice quiet. “Only four people in the world know this place exists. You and the children will stay here until I clean up the mess I created.”
“I’m not staying anywhere with you, Dominic!” I snapped, clutching the babies tightly. “I want answers! You told me nine months ago that marrying me was the biggest mistake of your life! You handed me divorce papers signed in black ink and walked out of my life without looking back! And now you expect me to just trust you because someone fired a gun at an airport?!”
Dominic closed his eyes. A deep, ragged sigh escaped his chest, shaking his entire broad frame.
“Julian,” Dominic said without opening his eyes. “Take the security detail to the outer perimeter. Clear the house. Leave us.”
“Boss—” Julian started nervously.
“LEAVE US!” Dominic roared, the sound echoing inside the confined space of the vehicle.
Julian bowed his head instantly. “Yes, sir.”
Within seconds, the front doors opened and closed, leaving Dominic and me alone in the back of the SUV with the sleeping twins.
Dominic reached into his suit jacket. Instinctively, I flinched, pulling the babies back, but he didn't pull out a gun. He pulled out a leather-bound pocket notebook—faded, worn at the edges, and clearly handled a thousand times.
He opened it to a specific page and held it out to me with a shaking hand.
I looked down at the paper. It was a photograph.
A high-resolution long-lens photo of me.
I was sitting at an outdoor café in SoHo, holding a cup of tea, smiling at my phone. It was taken almost ten months ago—a week before Dominic walked in and unexpectedly ended our marriage.
Centering my chest in the photograph was a bright red laser sight crosshair.
And taped to the bottom of the photo was a single line of typed text: DIVORCE HER AND STRIP HER OF THE FERRARO NAME, OR THE NEXT SIGHT IS A REAL ONE. YOU HAVE 48 HOURS.
My breath hitched in my throat. The paper trembled in my fingers as I stared at the terrifying image.
“Ten months ago,” Dominic whispered, his voice dripping with an agonizing sorrow, “the Syndicate formed a coalition with the Chicago Outfit. They realized they couldn't hit me directly because my security was too tight. So they targeted the only thing in this world that could destroy me.”
He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead. This time, I didn't pull back.
“They sent me that photograph, Elena,” Dominic choked out, tears finally brimming in his dark eyes. “They had three snipers stationed around our penthouse. If I tried to fight them right then, if I brought my guards in, they would have put a bullet through your heart before I could even draw my weapon. The only way to guarantee your absolute safety was to make the world believe I didn't love you anymore.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning into complete overload. “So... the divorce... the things you said...”
“Every cruel word that came out of my mouth that night killed a piece of my soul,” Dominic said, his voice breaking into open, ragged sobs as he bowed his head until his forehead rested against my knee. “I called you a burden. I told you I didn't love you. I made you hate me, Elena. Because if you hated me, you would leave New York. You would be safe. You would be stripped of the Ferraro name, and the Syndicate would lose interest in you.”
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He looked up at me, his eyes completely bloodshot, filled with a devastation so vast it swallowed the room.
“I thought I was saving your life by breaking your heart,” he whimpered, reaching out to gently touch the tiny blanket wrapping our daughter Maya. “I had no idea... God help me, Elena... I had no idea I was sending you away carrying my children.”
