Chapter 7
Dominic set Owen down gently on a plush leather sofa near a crackling fireplace. "Stay here, Owen. You did a very brave thing today."
"Is the bad lady coming back?" Owen asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"Never," Dominic promised, kissing the boy's forehead.
He turned to Clara, who was standing awkwardly near the center of the room, her hands still clutching her rumpled white apron. She looked entirely out of place in the inner sanctum of the mafia boss.
"Sit," Dominic commanded gently, gesturing toward an armchair opposite the sofa.
Clara complied, her legs feeling shaky. The adrenaline of the evening was finally wearing off, leaving her exhausted and hyper-aware of the massive shift in her reality.
Dominic walked over to a crystal decanter on his desk, pouring a small measure of amber liquid into a glass. He brought it to Clara, pressing the heavy crystal into her trembling hands.
"Drink," he instructed softly. "It will help settle your nerves."
Clara took a small sip, the burn of the alcohol grounding her slightly. She looked up at Dominic, her expressive eyes wide with fear.
"Did I cause a war, Mr. Crowne?" Clara whispered. "If I had just let her fire me... if Owen hadn't spoken up..."
"Do you believe a war is a high price to pay for the truth?" Dominic asked, pulling up a chair to sit directly in front of her, their knees almost touching. "She manipulated my son, Clara. You were threatened. There is no universe in which I would allow her to breathe free air after that."
"But her family... they are powerful," Clara said, her voice shaking.
"Are they more powerful than a father seeking vengeance?" Dominic asked, his dark eyes hardening into twin points of icy resolve. "Do not worry about the Shaws, Clara. I will handle them. You just need to focus on surviving tonight."
Before she could answer, the secure phone on Dominic’s desk began to ring. The shrill, encrypted tone shattered the silence of the study.
Dominic sighed, a harsh, frustrated sound escaping his chest. He stood up, the cold, calculating mask of the syndicate boss slipping back over his angular features instantly. He strode to the desk and picked up the receiver.
"Report," Dominic commanded.
"Boss, it's Marcus," the underboss's voice crackled through the speaker. "The Shaw family has mobilized. Their scouts were just spotted probing the northern perimeter. They know we have Juliette."
"Did they attempt a breach?" Dominic asked, his voice devoid of panic, asking the question with tactical precision.
"Not yet," Marcus replied. "They are massing numbers. Old man Shaw just sent an encrypted message. He demands his daughter back within the hour, or he will flatten the estate."
"Does an old man with a bruised ego truly believe he can issue ultimatums at my gates?" Dominic asked, his jaw tightening so hard the small artistic tattoo on his neck shifted. "Reinforce the northern walls. Issue armor-piercing rounds to the snipers on the roof. If a single vehicle crosses the property line without my authorization, turn it to scrap metal."
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"Understood, Boss. We are ready," Marcus confirmed before the line went dead.
Dominic set the phone down carefully. He didn't move for a moment, staring out the window into the dark, cold night. The Christmas Eve snow was beginning to fall, a peaceful, picturesque scene that starkly contrasted the impending bloodshed.
