Chapter 4 - Dominic
The bass of the music thrums in my chest as I step into Inferno. Even through the thick glass doors, the thundering beat pulses like the heartbeat of the city itself—chaotic and alive. The red and gold lights spill onto the sidewalk, beckoning the desperate and the dangerous alike. It’s my empire’s crown jewel, the kingdom I’ve built from blood and sweat—a carefully constructed haven for the unholy.
The sound outside fades as we enter, the air inside thick with the tang of alcohol, sweat, and the heady scent of too much perfume. The heat in the room wraps around me like a living thing, and for a moment, I’m caught in the intoxicating rush of it all—the power, the noise, the raw humanity on display. Inferno has a pulse, a rhythm all its own. It runs on danger, and I thrive in it.
Charles flanks me to the left, his piercing blue eyes scanning the crowd and his broad frame cutting through it like a blade. Nico, trailing slightly behind, fidgets with the cuff of his jacket. The kid’s eager, loyal—reckless as hell, but I keep him close because I see potential in him, even if it’s still raw. As we step deeper into the club, it parts around us. Dancers freeze mid-motion. Conversations drop to hushed whispers. Heads turn.
They know who I am.
They always know.
I inhale the stench of excess—liquor sloshing in glasses, sweat mingling with heavy perfume. Overhead, gold chandeliers glitter against the velvet-dark ceiling, their light casting eerie shadows over the crowd. The patrons are lost in their indulgence, oblivious to everything beyond their own pleasure.
But up there, in my territory, it’s different. There’s a stillness—a kind the world never offered me, so I carved it out for myself.
I take the stairs slowly, each step deliberate against the polished marble, the sound of my shoes echoing softly through the club. Charles and Nico follow, but I don’t look back. I don’t need to. Up here, every detail is under my control. Patrons lucky enough to sit in these seats know better than to test the limits of my hospitality.
Samuel Delgado waits for me.
The moment I step into the private lounge, he’s the first thing I notice. Not because he’s particularly imposing—he’s not. Delgado is lean, his sharp features almost too perfect to be real. But he wants to be noticed. Like always.
He lounges on a deep leather sofa, his dark suit tailored to perfection, a silver ring glinting on his finger as he swirls a glass of expensive whiskey. The gleam of the candlelight makes his smile stretch a little too wide, a little too practiced. I’ve dealt with men like him before. He’s playing a game, trying to size me up like I’m some kind of target.
“Castellano,” he drawls, rising to his feet, his voice slick and oily. He stretches his hand out, but I don’t bother extending mine.
“Delgado,” I reply, stepping into his space with measured indifference.
Beside him, Ramona Cortez watches me with unnerving composure. Her black hair is slicked back in a neat bun, and a thin dagger glints from the leather strap on her thigh—a subtle, but deadly warning. She doesn’t speak, but her presence is as sharp as a blade. I’ve learned to never underestimate her. She’s the brain to Delgado’s charm, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the smartest ones are always the most dangerous.
The tension in the room is palpable, thick as smoke. Delgado’s eyes shift from me to Charles, then to Nico, but his attention snaps back to me.
“You’ve been busy lately,” Delgado begins, his voice low, filled with insinuation as he swirls his drink. It’s clear this isn’t a social call, and we both know it.
“What I do isn’t your concern,” I say, my voice calm, reserved, controlled. Charles stands just behind me, a constant shadow, his eyes scanning the room, assessing. Delgado may have brought his best, but I brought mine, too.
Delgado’s smile doesn’t falter, but I can feel the shift beneath it. There’s steel in his gaze now, a hint of challenge. “It becomes my concern when whispers reach my ears. You’ve got a new project, Castellano. And I’m curious to know what you’re up to.”
The air between us tightens, thick and heavy, as if the very walls are holding their breath. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I meet his eyes, every muscle in my body taut, ready for whatever game he’s playing.
“What happens in my house is my business,” I say, each word deliberate, an iron warning. “Don’t overstep.”
Ramona leans forward slightly, her voice a soft rasp that cuts through the air like a blade through silk. “You know what they say about secrets, Dominic,” she says, her eyes never leaving mine. “They’re fragile. One crack, and everything spills out.”
Suddenly, there’s a hush. My expression is blank, unreadable. My blood simmers beneath the surface, but I force myself to remain still, unyielding.
“You think you’re untouchable, Castellano,” Delgado says, his voice almost playful now, testing the waters. “But even empires have cracks. You’d be wise to keep that in mind.”
My muscles tense, but I don’t show it. He wants me rattled—wants me to react. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.
“And you’d be wise to keep to your side of Montfort,” I retort, my voice stiff, venom laced under every word. “Don’t mistake my patience for weakness, Delgado. I don’t forgive trespasses.”
Delgado’s smile falters just slightly, but Ramona’s gaze sharpens, ever watchful. I know it was Delgado who hired Isabella’s brother to do his dirty work for him. He doesn’t have the courage to do something that dangerous himself, but I need him to know that I’m watching him.
“We’ll see each other again soon,” Delgado murmurs, finishing his drink with a slow, calculated motion. When the glass hits the table, the sound is unnervingly loud, like a warning bell.
I don’t respond. I don’t need to. The message is already clear.
Charles steps closer to me as the door closes behind Delgado and his strategist. He speaks in a low voice, his tone grave. “He knows too much. Someone’s talking.”
I don’t say anything at first, my mind already spinning. If Delgado knows about the project, if he knows about Isabella, then my operation has a leak. And leaks get sealed.
“Find out who it is,” I demand, the words sharp. Delgado’s little jabs may have seemed harmless, but I’m not stupid enough to ignore them. They’re not harmless. They’re a threat. And I don’t take threats lightly.
Later, I retreat to one of the quieter corners of the club. The music is distant now, a faint thrum in the background, replaced by the stillness of my thoughts. Charles updates me on Isabella—what she’s been doing around the house. His voice cuts through the quiet, and though I can tell he’s reluctant to admit it, I listen carefully.
“She’s good,” Charles admits. “Better than good. I saw one of her projects… looked like a trial or test project and the canvas was... alive with color.”
I frown slightly, the image of Isabella working in the sterile art studio playing in my mind. A colorful woman like her doesn’t belong in places like that. And yet, she’s thriving there. A part of me doesn’t want her to. She’s not made for this world. But another part—one I can’t quite name—wants to see where she’ll take it.
Charles pauses, his gaze flicking to me before he continues. “She doesn’t take direction well, though. Refuses to follow your exact requests.”
“What requests?” I echo, irritation rising in my chest like bile.
“She was sitting in the library last night and I asked her to return to her room because my shift was ending,” Charles continues, “She said she’s not a puppet. But you can’t let her roam around the house. Who knows what she might find.”
“I don’t need you telling me how to run my own house, Charles,” I snap, my tone sharp. A tightness coils in my chest—irritation. Isabella is an unforeseen complication, but I won’t tolerate my subordinates dictating my actions, especially when it concerns her. I may be ruthless, but she’s under my protection and I’ll make sure she’s comfortable.
I pull out my phone and unlock it, scrolling through the images one of my men captured earlier today. My finger slips and a picture of Isabella my hacker, Akira, the best in the city, sent me fills my screen. She’s in an art gallery with her hair tied back but strands falling loose against her forehead as she crouches over the canvas. Paint is smeared on her hands, a splash of blue on her cheek, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s completely unaware of the world around her, absorbed in her work.
She doesn’t belong here. But now that she is, I need to protect her at all costs.
I turn the phone face down, my stomach tightening with an emotion I don’t care to dissect right now.
As we prepare to leave, Nico pulls me aside, his youthful energy replaced by a harder expression. “Dominic,” he whispers, “I saw two men slipping into the back rooms. I think they’re with Delgado.”
My pulse remains steady, but everything inside me goes still. The energy around us shifts, coated with the promise of violence. Delgado is pushing his luck.
“Show me,” I order, my voice low and controlled, though my thoughts are far from calm.
We move swiftly through the dimly lit hallways, the muffled bass of the music fading behind us. The sound of our footsteps is sharp. It doesn’t take long to find them—two of Delgado’s men hunched over a crate, trying to tamper with Castellano goods.
I don’t give them a chance to react.
“You’re trespassing,” I say, my voice quiet but edged with steel. The bigger of the two freezes, his face draining of color as he turns to face me.
What happens next isn’t clean. Violence never is. I move in close, pinning the lead man against the wall, my forearm crushing his throat. He thrashes, his hands clawing at my arm in desperation, but I lean in harder, cutting off his air. His eyes bulge, fear and rage flickering across his face. I don’t normally dirty my hands with petty brawls, but there’s a fire burning inside me now—raw, unchecked anger that demands release. My voice is low, steady, and deadly. “Tell Delgado this is a warning. Next time, I’ll send his men back in pieces.”
Before he can respond, I feel the sharp jolt of a fist slamming into my ribs from the side. I release the man and whirl around, catching the next attacker off guard. My fist connects with his jaw, the force sending him stumbling backward. He recovers quickly, lunging at me again with a wild swing, but I duck, driving my shoulder into his stomach and slamming him into the nearest table. The wood cracks under the impact, and he gasps for air as I follow through with another blow to his face. Blood splatters across my knuckles, hot and sticky, but I keep moving.
Across the room, Nico grapples with one of the others, a flash of steel catching my eye as the man draws a knife. Nico manages to twist his arm aside, but not before the blade slices across his side. He grits his teeth, refusing to go down, and with a sharp twist, disarms the man and drives his elbow into the attacker’s face. Charles, as always, is swift and efficient—his movements precise as he drives his knee into the same man’s gut before finishing him off with a hard strike to the back of the head.
By the time it’s over, the room is a mess of overturned furniture, scattered debris, and blood. My breath comes in slow, steady gasps, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. The bigger man coughs weakly from where he crumpled to the floor, clutching his bruised throat. I take a step toward him, watching as he shrinks back, fear finally replacing whatever bravado he had left.
“Make sure Delgado understands,” I say, watching the man’s blood drip from my fists.
The message is loud and clear.
Don’t mess with me.
As we leave the back hallway, the music grows louder, almost deafening, but I’m not listening to it. I’m listening to the pounding of my thoughts, a chaotic rhythm that matches the bass of the club.
“Stop whining, Moretti,” Charles mutters, his tone dry, but there’s no malice. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Easy for you to say,” Nico grumbles, wincing as he straightens. “They don’t make knives like they used to.”
I mute them both with a glance. I don’t care about their banter. Delgado overplayed his hand tonight. But I know this isn’t over. He wanted to rattle me, draw out a reaction. He won’t get that satisfaction.
I wipe the blood off my knuckles with a handkerchief as we return to the VIP section. Delgado is growing bolder, and that’s dangerous.
“What do you want to do about him?” Nico asks, his voice hesitant, but curious.
I glance at him, then back to the dance floor below. The sea of bodies writhes under the red-and-gold lights, blissfully unaware of the violence that just unfolded, of how close they are to being consumed by it. I envy them, their ignorance. The luxury of it.
“Nothing,” I say finally, my voice calm but firm. “Not yet.”
Charles raises an eyebrow at me, but I don’t explain. Delgado expects retaliation—wants me to react. He won’t get that satisfaction. I’ve survived this long because I know when to strike and when to wait. The next move will be mine, and I’ll make it count.
A flash of gold catches my eye—a woman laughing on the dance floor. Her hair spins around her face as she dances, carefree, unaware. For a second, I think of Isabella—her defiance and confidence.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I glance at the screen. I expect a security update, but when I see the name flashing across the screen, it catches me off guard: Isabella Parker.
“She’s not supposed to be contacting you directly,” Charles murmurs, noting my hesitation.
“I know,” I say, curious despite myself.
I unlock the phone. The message is short, sharp:
I’m not a spy, Castellano. Stop sending people to snoop around my stuff! If you want me to create something worth your time, let me do it my way.
The corner of my mouth twitches upward. She must’ve found out I had someone go through her things.
“She might drive me insane,” I mutter, half to myself.
Charles raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
I slip the phone into my pocket as we head toward the exit. The moment we step outside, the chilly air hits me—a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the club. The crisp bite of it settles deep, grounding me. Isabella’s words swirl in my mind, lingering like smoke.
I’ve spent years building my empire on control, on bending people to my will. But she refuses to break, and that… that stirs my heart in a way I can’t ignore.
Maybe it’s fascination. Maybe it’s a problem. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the first crack in the walls I’ve spent years building.