Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Doorway
A sharp, violent gasp shattered the tomb-like silence of the office.
Dominic’s head snapped toward the threshold.
Standing in the wide aperture of the open double doors was Hannah Reed.
At twenty-five, the junior maid who had joined the domestic staff of the estate four months ago was frozen like a deer pinned in the headlights of a locomotive. Her long brunette hair was loosely gathered into an untidy, practical chignon at the nape of her neck, loose strands clinging damply to her pale, sweating temples. She wore the estate’s traditional gray linen maid’s dress, its modest white collar and cuffs starched and clean, accented by a simple white apron tied tightly around her narrow waist. On her feet were worn black flats that made no sound against the marble.
In her right hand, she was clutching a yellow microfiber dusting cloth so hard that her knuckles were white.
Her chest rose and fell in frantic, shallow gasps, her wide, expressive brown eyes dilated with sheer, unadulterated panic. Her gaze flicked from her baby daughter perched comfortably against the billionaire’s muscular chest, down to the worn silver medal resting between Dominic’s scarred, tattooed fingers.
Every drop of blood drained from Hannah’s face, leaving her skin the translucent, horrifying color of skim milk.
“Mr. Caruso…” Hannah choked out, her voice cracking into a high, reedy whisper that bounced awkwardly off the dark mahogany walls. “My baby… please. My baby.”
She took a frantic, stumbling step forward, her apron rustling, her arms extending instinctively as if she intended to snatch the child straight from the arms of the most dangerous man in Chicago.
Dominic did not flinch. He did not yell.
Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his weight. His massive left arm tightened smoothly around the infant’s waist, drawing her securely into the protective hollow of his chest, using his broad shoulders to create an impenetrable wall of black wool between the child and the doorway. The baby gurgled happily, entirely unbothered by the tension, chewing playfully on the ear of her cream stuffed rabbit.
With his right hand, Dominic raised the silver Saint Christopher medal.
He let it dangle from its shortened chain, the dented silver catching the sharp amber beam of the desk lamp, swinging like a pendulum of retribution.
His dark hazel eyes—ringed with that exact, terrifying golden fire—locked onto Hannah’s face. The tender vulnerability that had softened his features moments ago evaporated, replaced by the glacial, lethal composure that had sent men to the bottom of Lake Michigan.
When Dominic spoke, his voice was not loud. It was low, flat, and carried the crushing, suffocating density of an executioner reading a final decree.
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“My brother died wearing this,” Dominic said, each syllable falling like a stone onto the marble floor. “Eighteen months ago.”
Hannah stopped mid-stride. Her breath caught violently in her throat, a choked sob catching behind her teeth as she stared at the swinging silver medal.
