Chapter 5 - The Shield of Flesh and Shadow
Claire reacted on pure, unadulterated maternal instinct.
The moment Dominic’s roar shook the room and the mirror behind her detonated into flying daggers of glass, she dropped the microphone. She did not scream. She did not freeze. She dropped to her knees on the velvet-carpeted riser, throwing her arms wide to pull all three of her children into her chest.
Ethan had already thrown himself in front of his sisters, his small arms outstretched, his jaw set in that stubborn, fearless Hale defiance. Ava was sobbing, her hands buried in Claire’s navy silk bodice, while Lily clung to Claire’s waist, her face pressed against her mother’s ribs, trembling so violently that her teeth clattered together.
Claire tucked their heads beneath her chin, curling her spine over them like a shell, preparing to absorb the hail of lead with her own flesh.
Instead of a bullet tearing through her back, an immense, immovable wall of solid muscle and tailored wool crashed over her.
Dominic threw himself across all four of them.
His broad back shielded Claire’s shoulders; his heavy arms encircled the entire cluster of mother and children, locking them against the heavy, solid oak base of the podium. His weight was colossal, yet he held his chest slightly suspended, bearing the brunt of the falling debris while ensuring he did not crush the fragile bodies beneath him.
THWACK. THWACK.
Two more rounds slammed into the front panel of the oak podium inches above Dominic’s head, spraying sharp splinters of dark timber across his black hair and shoulders. A jagged shard of falling mirror glass struck the sleeve of Dominic’s tuxedo jacket, slicing cleanly through the fine wool and cutting a two-inch crimson line across his forearm, but he did not even flinch. His breath was hot, heavy, and ragged against Claire’s neck, smelling of peat smoke, cedar, and the metallic tang of pure adrenaline.
Claire lifted her head from her children’s curls, her brown eyes wide with absolute, breathless shock.
She was staring straight into the face of Dominic Hale.
He was inches from her. She could see the dark stubble along his razor jaw, the sweat glistening on his temples, and the faint scent of the cologne he had worn on their wedding night eight years ago. His pale gray eyes—the exact, terrifying eyes of the little boy trembling beneath her left arm—were burning with a ferocious, unholy protective fury that made the air between them vibrate.
For seven years, she had hated him. For seven years, she had cursed the day she ever gave her heart to a mafia king who could believe forged paper over her living soul. She had spent two thousand nights lying awake in coastal motels, terrifying herself with the thought that if Dominic ever found them, he would tear her children from her arms or finish the execution he had ordered in his penthouse.
Yet here he was.
The most feared predator in the state of New York was kneeling in broken glass, bleeding through his tailored sleeve, using his own flesh and bone as a human shield to stop bullets meant for her babies.
“Dominic…” she gasped, the name tearing from her throat like a ragged sob.
Dominic did not answer. He shifted his weight, his left arm tightening like an iron band around Ava and Lily’s trembling shoulders, while his pale eyes raked over Claire’s face, searching for blood, searching for wounds, his expression a violent storm of agony, relief, and lethal resolve.
“Keep your heads down,” Dominic commanded. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated directly against Claire’s ribs. “Do not look up. Ethan, hold your mother.”
The six-year-old boy looked up from beneath Claire’s arm, his gray eyes locking onto Dominic’s. Ethan did not cry. He saw the blood dripping from Dominic’s torn sleeve, saw the terrifying width of the man’s shoulders, and gave a single, firm nod, his small fingers burying themselves into the navy silk of Claire’s gown.
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Dominic’s heart seized at the boy’s reaction. Blood of my blood, his mind screamed.
He reached inside the left breast of his tailored tuxedo, his calloused fingers wrapping around the checkered grip of his custom Kimber .45. He racked the slide against his hip with a sharp, mechanical CLACK, his eyes narrowing toward the service corridor as the ballroom burned around them.
