Chapter 6 - The Broken Glass
By midnight, the gala had dissolved into whispered rumors about the Moretti heir and his mysterious handler.
We retreated to the penthouse, the city lights below us glowing like a bed of dying embers. The adrenaline from the ballroom had faded, leaving a heavy, charged silence in its wake.
Dawson shed his tuxedo jacket, tossing it onto the white leather sofa, and poured two fingers of un-aged whiskey into a heavy crystal glass. He stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, staring out into the dark night.
I walked up quietly behind him, stopping a few feet away.
“You didn't have to break Rossi’s wrist tonight,” I said softly.
Dawson didn't turn around. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the ice cubes clink against the crystal. “He insulted you. Nobody insults what belongs to the Moretti name.”
“I don't belong to the Moretti name, Dawson,” I reminded him, my voice steady. “I’m an employee on a one-year contract holding a leash on a volatile asset.”
At that, Dawson turned around slowly. His stormy eyes met mine, and for the first time since I met him, the anger and the arrogance were completely stripped away, leaving something raw, jagged, and exposed.
“You think I’m just a monster, don't you?” Dawson asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, gravelly vulnerability. “A spoiled prince who breaks things because he likes the sound of shattering glass.”
“I think you’re a man who doesn't know how to handle the things he’s lost,” I answered honestly, stepping a little closer.
Dawson let out a dry, humorless laugh, setting his glass down hard on the marble counter. He walked toward me, stopping just inches away. I could feel the heat radiating off him.
“Two years ago, my mother was in a car crash on Lake Shore Drive,” Dawson said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “The brakes were cut. Everyone in the underworld knew it was a hit meant for my father. But she took the blow instead. I was supposed to be in that car with her, Clara. I switched seats at the last second because I wanted to stay behind at a club.”
He looked down at his bruised knuckles, his hands trembling slightly.
“Every time I break something, every time I lose my temper, it’s because I’m trying to break the numbness. Because sitting still means I have to feel the guilt of knowing she died in my place.”
The air in the penthouse vanished. All the fierce, sharp walls I had built around myself dissolved. Without thinking, I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his large, calloused hand, pressing my palm against his bruised knuckles.
Dawson looked down at our hands, then slowly raised his gaze back to my eyes.
“You’re not a monster, Dawson,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “You’re just grieving in a world that doesn't allow you to bleed.”
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Dawson didn't answer with words. He closed the remaining distance between us, his hand rising to cup the back of my neck, his thumb brushing softly across my jawline.
When his lips met mine, it wasn't a demand. It wasn't a trap or a transaction. It was a collision of two broken people finding a strange, terrifying peace in the middle of a war zone.
