Chapter 12 - Dominic
The storm outside rages against the city, rain slamming against the windows in an unrelenting downpour. The steady patter is a welcome distraction, a buffer against the soundless void of my study, one that has stretched thin over the past week, woven with unanswered questions and simmering rage.
A single desk lamp shines over the scattered papers, maps, and photographs before me. They are the remnants of what should have been a well-executed plan, a clear path toward reclaiming what was mine. Instead, blood stained that path, and now I sit here, trapped in the aftermath of an ambush.
I inhale slowly, surrounded by the scent of leather and whiskey. My body has healed—physically, at least. The bullet wound, stitched and bandaged, is little more than a dull ache now. But the real wound, the one gnawing at my mind, isn’t something a doctor can fix.
There’s a leak in my house. Someone has been feeding the Delgado’s information. Someone inside my crew fed the Delgados information—a betrayal buried deep within my own ranks. And until I uncover who it is, I can’t trust anyone. Adrian must have warned Samuel about us joining them at the pier but there’s no way they could’ve known our exact positions. True, they were attacking everyone, but Isabella was especially targeted. This just means one thing; someone told them what she means to me. There are too many people at this house but I have leverage over everyone – they know I won’t hesitate to kill them. Or worse – kill their loved ones.
But this just means one thing – Isabella is in danger.
That thought alone is dangerous. She wasn’t supposed to matter. But she does.
And if they know about her, if the traitor has whispered her name to the wrong ears, then she’s already in danger.
And I’ll kill anyone who tries to use her against me.
A sharp knock at the door shatters my thoughts. I don’t bother looking up. “Come in.”
The door swings open, and Nico steps inside, his usual casualness coiled tight, wound like a spring ready to snap. But there’s something else beneath it.
It’s in the way he moves—the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens like he’s barely holding on.
He’s different now. And I know why. War changes men.
We lost too many at the docks. More than we ever have before. The echoes of their last screams, the gunfire cutting them down, the blood soaking into the concrete—it’s still there, lurking beneath the surface, poisoning the air we breathe. And Nico? He’s hardened now. We all are.
The Delgados didn’t just take our men that night. They started a war. One there’s no turning away from.
One we’ll end—no matter the cost.
“I came to see how you were doing,” He states, his eyes eying my torso where the bullet hit me, “Things didn’t go so well last week.”
I give him a small smile. He’s still a child. He isn’t supposed be here but being through things like he has forces you to be strong.
“Tell me about it,” I chuckle, “How’s everyone else doing?”
“Better. I mean we lost seven men but the rest… they’re better. Except Jayden,” he replies, anger lacing his words, “He’s still at the hospital.”
“Yeah… I talked to his doctor. Don’t worry he’ll be back soon and when he does… we’ll have our revenge,” I say. I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure – him or myself.
“We’ve got a mole, Dom,” he says suddenly. His voice is sharp, edged with certainty. “It’s the only explanation for the ambush.”
I exhale slowly, setting down the whiskey glass in my hand. “I know. But knowing it isn’t the same as proving it.”
Nico moves closer, his fingers tapping against his belt in that restless way of his when he knows something’s about to get ugly. “Charles mentioned tightening security, but I haven’t seen him today. Have you?”
That makes me pause. Charles missing? That doesn’t happen. But again, I’ve been on bed rest for the past week. He’s taking care of everything in my absence.
“No,” I say, my voice clipped. “Give him time. He’s quiet but he’s got feelings. He just deals with them by drinking himself to madness. As far as the rest of you are concerned, everyone needs motivation right now. Tell them about the mole and whoever finds him, with proof, will be given a reward.”
Our eyes meet for a beat, and I can see the silent question in his stare—Are we really about to turn everyone against each other?
“And when we find him?”
I take a sip of the whisky I had poured hours ago in my glass. “We put a bullet in him.”
It’s not an easy command to give, but in this world, trust is earned in blood.
When Nico leaves, the room feels heavier, the walls closing in. The storm outside wails against the glass, rattling the windows like a warning I can’t ignore.
I turn my gaze to the painting propped against the far wall—the one Isabella made, the one I took to Pier 12. It survived the bloodshed, but not untouched. My own blood stains the edges, soaked into the canvas like a cruel signature.
But it’s not just a painting. It’s a symbol.
The Delgados have always wanted it—not because of its value, but because of what it represents.
I exhale, leaning back into my chair, letting myself slip into the past—a memory I’ve kept buried for too long.
I was seven when my mother first told me about the painting. She showed me a faded picture of it.
It was late—past the time I was supposed to be asleep. The rain tapped against the window, soft and steady, a lullaby I had always found comforting. But that night, my mother’s voice was what held me still, her appearance grounding me in a way the rain never could.
She sat on the edge of my bed, her dark hair falling over her shoulder as she reached for my hand. Her fingers were soft, warm, tracing slow circles on my palm—comforting, careful. Even then, I knew it was a distraction, a way to soothe me before she told me what I wasn’t supposed to know.
"My father adored that painting," she murmured, her voice low, laced with grief.
“He used to say it was the soul of our family. I painted it when I was only 17 and it became the most important thing we owned.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
I had seen that smile before. The one she wore when she looked at old photographs, at things she had left behind but never forgotten.
I frowned, shifting closer. “Then why did you leave it behind?”
Her fingers stilled against my palm and she didn’t speak. She just watched me, her dark eyes soft, haunted.
"Because," she whispered, "I chose love over blood. The painting was stolen soon after that. Father always thought your dad was behind it. That he stole the painting just to spite him.”
“Did he?” I ask. I loved my dad, but I knew what kind of man he was.
“No,” she answered, a playful smile on her face, “I did. And I burnt it. This picture is the only proof of its existence.”
I didn’t understand then. Not really. But I do now. The painting wasn’t just some family treasure that reminded him of good times. It was a wound—a relic of a family divided by greed and power, a reminder of the legacy my mother tried to escape but never truly could.
And now, it’s the bait I need.
I blink back the past, pushing the memories down into the dark, locked away where they belong. The past is a distraction. And distractions get you killed.
Exhaling slowly, I turn my focus back to the painting in front of me.
Isabella’s work is unnervingly close to the original. Every delicate brushstroke, every precise shade of crimson, as if she had reached into the past and resurrected a phantom of history.
And now, it will become a weapon.
If I put Isabella’s painting up for auction, Samuel will come for it.
It’s not just a painting to him. It’s his grandfather’s legacy, the last piece of his family’s pride before my mother ripped it away. He’ll see it as an insult, a slap in the face.
He won’t be able to resist.
And when he takes the bait, he’ll expose himself.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the canvas, the faint scent of drying paint clinging to me. The plan is taking shape, solidifying in my mind, each move intentional. But it’s not enough to set the bait. I need the right stage.
Not just some underground deal. This has to be public. Loud. Unavoidable.
My first instinct is to call Nico, but I stop myself. This isn’t his world. He’s good at handling threats, securing shipments, pulling a trigger when necessary—but this? This requires someone else.
Someone with influence. Someone who owes me a favor.
I grab my phone and dial Oliver Devereaux.
He picks up on the second ring, his voice sharp, clipped. “Dominic?”
“We’re hosting an auction,” I say without preamble.
A beat of silence. Then—laughter.
“You’re joking.”
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”
Another pause. Then a low sigh. “And why exactly do you need me?”
“Because it needs to be real,” I say, leaning forward, gripping the phone tighter. “Not some underground bullshit. I need the kind of auction that attracts attention—the right kind.”
Oliver exhales sharply, and I can picture him rubbing his temples. “This is insane. You’re talking about bringing the city’s elite into your war with the Delgados.”
“I’m talking about luring them out,” I correct. “And when they come for it, they’ll make a mistake. That’s when I strike.”
Oliver is silent. I can hear his contemplative breathing on the other side. Then, his voice drops lower, edged with reluctant admiration. “You always did like playing with fire.”
I smirk. “And I never get burned.”
“That’s debatable.” He huffs. “Fine. I’ll set it up. But you owe me for this.”
“You already owe me your life, Oliver. Consider us even.”
A low curse on the other end. Then—“I’ll be in touch.”
The line goes dead.
Samuel thinks he’s untouchable. That he can move in the shadows, pull the strings without consequence. But I know him. His weaknesses. His obsessions. And nothing will draw him out faster than this.
A slow, sharp grin tugs at my lips.
This time, I make the rules.
After hanging up, I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair, my fingers gripping at the strands before releasing the tension. The ghosts of my past presses down on me, heavier than it has in years. It’s not just the auction. It’s not just the war brewing between me and Samuel. It’s everything.
The past. The choices that led us here. The names we were born with, the blood we were destined to spill.
I reach for the glass on my desk, the whiskey barely touched. The ice clinks softly against the crystal as I lift it to my lips, but I don’t drink. I just stare at the amber liquid, lost in the reflection of a man I barely recognize anymore.
Samuel and I were never supposed to be enemies.
Once, we were just two boys, raised in opposite corners of the same empire, oblivious to the fact that our bloodlines would one day demand war. We didn’t know then what our fathers were building, what was being taken from one another, what debts would one day be settled in blood.
But the choices of the past shaped us into what we are today. And now, only one of us gets to survive it.
My grip tightens around the glass as rage simmers beneath the surface. Samuel took everything from me. He took my parents, my legacy, and now—now, he thinks he can take my people, my power, my future.
He thinks he can take Isabella.
I curse under my breath, shoving that thought down before it turns into something I can’t control.
I haven’t seen her since that night. Since our kiss. Since the moment she nearly climbed into my lap, and I almost let her.
If it weren’t for the wound, I would have had her right there, against me, beneath me, where I’ve imagined her far too many times. But I haven’t gone to her. Haven’t sought her out.
Because I can’t afford to.
Not now. Not when everything is spiraling toward the inevitable.
Instead, I’ve drowned myself in strategy, in plans, in blood. I’ve let the war consume me, because that’s what I know—that’s what I am. But even as I sit here, whiskey in hand, plans unfolding, there’s one truth that gnaws at the edges of my control.
If Samuel wants to come for me, let him.
But I won’t let him take anything else from me.
Especially not Isabella.