Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Library
The gunfire stopped around 2:00 AM.
The clean-up crew—men in dark suits with garbage bags and bleach—came and went with terrifying efficiency. By sunrise, the manicured lawns of the Russo estate looked immaculate again, as if no blood had ever soaked into the rich green grass.
Dominic didn't come to the nursery until dawn.
When he opened the panic room door, he looked exhausted. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, a shallow graze bled sluggishly down his forearm, and his eyes were dark with the remnants of battle.
“They’re gone,” he said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “The estate is secure.”
“Are you hurt?” I asked before I could stop myself, stepping forward.
Dominic looked down at his bleeding arm as if he had just noticed it. “It’s nothing.”
“Sit down,” I ordered, echoing the same tone I used when he tracked mud across my floors.
To my surprise, he didn't argue. He followed me down the dim hallway into the vast, mahogany-paneled library. I fetched the first-aid kit from the upstairs bath, pulled up a leather chair, and motioned for him to sit.
As I carefully cleaned the cut on his arm with antiseptic, Dominic winced slightly—not from the pain, but from the unexpected gentleness of my touch.
“You aren't shaking,” he observed quietly, his dark eyes watching my face in the dim lamplight.
“I grew up in an auto shop with an abusive father and rival gangs shaking down our business,” I replied evenly, applying a sterile bandage to his forearm. “Gunfire isn't new to me, Dominic. Only the scale of it is.”
He let out a dry, humorless huff of laughter. “And yet you stayed. Even after seeing what I am. Even after watching me kill men outside your window.”
“I stayed because of them,” I said, gesturing toward the upstairs nursery. “And because I realized something about you, Mr. Russo.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“You’re terrified of your own house,” I whispered, looking straight into his eyes. “You surround yourself with concrete, guns, and men in black suits because you think love is a weakness that got your wife killed. But you’re wrong. Love is the only thing keeping you human.”
The air between us charged with an electric, dangerous heat.
Dominic didn't look away. Slowly, deliberately, his large, calloused hand reached up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch lingered on my cheek, his thumb tracing my jawline with a tenderness that completely contradicted the blood on his shirt.
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“You’re playing with fire, Clara,” he murmured, his voice husky and low.
“Then maybe,” I whispered, leaning just an inch closer, “I like the warmth.”
