Chapter 4 - The House of Glass and Blood
Rocco descended the three concrete steps with surprising gentleness, sliding his massive arms beneath my shoulders and knees, lifting me with effortless strength while taking care not to put pressure on my fractured ribs.
As he carried me up into the light of the foyer, the pain spiked blindingly through my chest, and I let out a sharp gasp, burying my face against his lapel.
“Easy, Miss Mallory. I’ve got you,” Rocco murmured, his voice surprisingly soft.
He carried me into the formal living room—the very room where I had hosted holiday dinners for Barrett’s snobbish family, where Carol Hayes had once critiqued my flower arrangements and told me I needed to learn how to be a proper hostess.
They weren't looking at flower arrangements now.
Barrett was kneeling on the Persian rug in the center of the room, his designer shirt ripped at the collar, a dark purple bruise swelling across his jaw where Rocco had introduced him to the drywall. Standing a few feet away, pressed against the grand piano, was Taryn. She was wrapped tightly in my ivory silk robe, her mascara running down her cheeks in jagged black streaks, trembling like a trapped animal.
Two of my father’s men stood on either side of them, their hands resting casually inside their suit jackets.
Dominic Romano sat in my custom velvet armchair—the one I had imported from Milan—holding a crystal highball glass filled with amber liquid that he must have poured himself from Barrett’s private cabinet.
He took a slow sip, his gray eyes fixed entirely on Barrett.
Rocco carried me over and gently set me down on the matching velvet sofa, propping cushions behind my back so I could sit upright without crushing my ribs.
“Get a doctor,” Dominic commanded without looking away from Barrett.
One of the men near the door pulled out a burner phone and dialed immediately.
Dominic finally shifted his gaze from Barrett to me. He set the glass down on the mahogany coffee table with a soft clink.
“Mallory,” he said, his voice carrying the deep, gravelly weight of a man who had not spoken his daughter's name aloud in a decade. “Look at me.”
I raised my eyes to meet his. Ten years of resentment, of trying to prove I was better than my name, of running from the blood running through my veins—it all collided in that single moment. And yet, looking at him now, sitting in my ruined home ready to burn the world down because someone had hurt me... I didn't feel disgusted.
I felt protected.
“Hi, Dad,” I whispered, my voice raspy.
Dominic’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He stood up slowly, walked across the rug, and crouched down beside the sofa, his weathered hand hovering just an inch from my bruised cheek, as if he were afraid physical contact might cause me more pain.
“Who did this?” he asked. The question wasn't loud. It sounded like the quiet snap of a dry twig before an avalanche.
I didn't have to answer.
Barrett, desperate and delusional to the very end, scrambled forward on his knees across the rug.
“Mr. Romano—sir, please!” Barrett pleaded, his voice cracking with pathetic desperation. “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding! Mallory—tell him! She came home, she threw a fit, she attacked Taryn! I was just trying to defend our guest! It got out of hand—!”
Dominic didn't look at Barrett while he spoke. He didn't even turn his head.
He simply raised his left hand and snapped his fingers twice.
Before Barrett could finish his sentence, one of the enforcers standing by the door stepped forward, grabbed Barrett by the back of his hair, and slammed his face downward into the thick wool of the Persian rug with a sickening crunch.
Barrett screamed, a muffled, gurgling sound as his nose hit the floor.
“I didn't ask you, boy,” Dominic said softly, standing up and brushing a speck of dust off his immaculate cashmere sleeve. He looked down at Barrett writhing on the floor, then turned his cold, dead-eyed stare toward Taryn.
Taryn let out a high-pitched sob, sliding down the side of the grand piano until she was sitting on the floor, pulling the silk robe tighter around her shaking body.
“Mallory,” Taryn choked out, her voice pathetic and shivering. “Mallory, please... we were roommates. We were friends. Tell him... tell him it was a mistake...”
I looked at the woman who had stood beside me at my altar, holding my bouquet, promising to guard my happiness.
“You wore my clothes,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “You slept in my bed. And when he broke my ribs, you watched and told him I deserved it.”
Taryn opened her mouth to speak, but Dominic cut her off with a flick of his wrist.
“Rocco,” my father said, walking back toward the velvet armchair. “Take the girl outside. Put her in the back of the third car. Give her twenty minutes to pack a single bag, and make sure she never sets foot in the state of New York or Connecticut again. If she breathes a word of what happened tonight to anyone—ever—find her.”
“Boss,” Rocco grunted, walking over to Taryn and lifting her bodily off the floor by her arms while she screamed and thrashed, dragging her toward the shattered front door.
The silence that settled back over the living room was absolute, broken only by Barrett’s wet, ragged groans as he lay bleeding into the Persian rug.
May you like
Dominic sat back down, crossed his legs, and picked up his crystal glass.
“Now, Barrett,” my father said, taking a sip of whiskey. “Let’s talk about your assets.”
