Chapter 5 - The Rules of the House
The guest cottage was larger than any house I had ever lived in.
It featured three bedrooms, a roaring stone fireplace, and French doors that opened onto a walled rose garden monitored by discreet security cameras hidden in the stone lanterns.
For three days, I lived in a surreal golden cage.
Every morning, a quiet maid brought fresh fruit, pastries, and coffee. A private tutor arrived at 10:00 a.m. to teach Lily, while two armed guards sat silently on the porch outside.
Dominic came to the cottage every evening at 8:00 p.m.
He didn't make demands. He didn't force conversation. He simply sat in the armchair by the fire, reading intelligence reports or financial ledgers, while I worked on my accounting correspondence courses on a laptop he had provided.
"You don't talk much," I said on the fourth night, setting down my tea mug.
Dominic didn't look up from his papers. "In my line of work, people who talk too much end up in concrete footings under the pier."
"Is that supposed to make me feel safe?"
He raised his eyes. The firelight reflected in his dark pupils, highlighting the faint, faded scar running from his jawline down into his collar—a souvenir from the explosion three weeks ago.
"You are safe here, Emma," he said softly. "My grandfather built this house with reinforced steel behind the stone walls. There are thirty armed men on the perimeter. No one enters without my personal authorization."
"And when does this end?" I asked, leaning forward. "When do I get my life back?"
"When Marcus Moretti is dead," Dominic said without a single trace of hesitation.
I shuddered at how easily he spoke of execution. "You speak about killing men like you're ordering groceries."
"Marcus Moretti put a bomb under my car, Emma," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark register. "He killed two men who had children your daughter's age. He tried to burn you alive in your diner three days ago. I don't order groceries, Emma. I remove threats."
"And what happens to us when he's gone?" I asked softly. "Do you just let us go back to Rosie's?"
Dominic looked at me for a long, silent moment. His eyes moved over my face, taking in the color that had returned to my cheeks, the clean sweater I was wearing, the peaceful quiet of the room.
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"Do you really want to go back to starving on eighteen dollars an hour, Emma?" he asked softly.
I couldn't answer him. Because for the first time in six years, I hadn't cried myself to sleep over unpaid bills.
