Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
DOMINO
D ocuments lay sprawled across the coffee table, a mess of numbers and names, wire transfers and timestamps. A spider web of deception. So many details blurred together until they became a single, unbearable truth—one I refused to accept.
Brielle was a manipulator. A liar. A survivor who never played a game she couldn’t win. She always had an exit strategy. And now, with someone clearly closing in on her, this?
This looked too convenient. My fingers twitched at my sides, my pulse hammering in my ears. It was all there—dates, encrypted messages, bank records that traced back to Federico.
Proof.
Remi had spent hours digging through these files, pulling together an airtight case of Federico’s betrayal. Ghost had backed him up. They’d worked together, meticulously piecing through every digital breadcrumb until they found what they were looking for.
But the voice in my head wouldn’t shut the fuck up. It was too easy. The words on the pages shifted under my gaze, smudging at the edges. The ink felt false, too neat, too damning.
Printouts could be doctored.
Numbers could be fabricated.
I dragged a hand down my face, pressing my fingers into my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. Something wasn’t right. I just couldn’t pinpoint where that niggling sensation came from and what it meant. But I wouldn’t stop until I knew the truth.
“Domino.” Remi’s voice was sharp. I opened my eyes. He was watching me—tense, waiting. “This is real,” he said, his tone edged with frustration.
He wanted me to see it. To accept it. But conviction wasn’t proof. I wouldn’t believe it until the devil himself made them whole.
I lifted my cigarette to my lips, exhaling slowly. The smoke curled between us, twisting in the dim light. “It means nothing without something physical,” I muttered. “A paper trail can be rewritten.”
Remi’s jaw ticked. I saw the way his fingers flexed against his knee like he wanted to hit something; his body vibrated. His teeth sank into his full bottom lip like he was fighting to keep words at bay.
Before he could argue, my phone vibrated against the table. The sound sent a cold rush down my spine. I turned it over and froze. The name flashing across the screen made my blood run cold.
Federico.
It was like he knew we were talking about him. I reached for the phone, gripping it so hard my knuckles went white. Swiped to answer, and brought it to my ear.
My father’s voice slithered through the receiver, smooth but firm. Commanding. “We need to talk. Now.”
The muscles in my jaw locked. My grip tightened around the plastic casing, the subtle crack of strain barely registering. This wasn’t a request. Federico didn’t make requests.
He dealt in orders, ultimatums, and consequences.
Emotions were for the weak.
“Where?” I forced out through gritted teeth.
“The compound. Thirty minutes.”
The line went dead. I lowered the phone, my stomach twisting into knots. The timing was too fucking perfect. Federico knew something, or at the very least, he suspected.
I turned my head, my gaze locking onto Remi. Teeth sank into his bottom lip, chewing on his piercings. He was perched on the edge of the couch, watching me. The intensity in his eyes seared right through to the marrow of my bones. The oversized hoodie he’d stolen from me swallowed him whole, sleeves bunched around his hands. His black skinny jeans clung to his legs, hugging the sharp angles of his frame.
My marks stained his skin.
A litany of ownership. Obsession .
The soft glow from the lamp caught the deep, bruised circles under his eyes, but his expression remained carefully unreadable. Even now, even with doubt crawling under my skin, I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Remi was ready to go. Ready to do whatever I asked. Because we weren’t just partners.
We were something worse .
Bound together by violence, by blood, by a need so deep it bordered on sickness.
The darkness curled in his gaze, coiled in his bones, whispered against his skin. It called to the monster in me—the one teetering on the edge, caught between control and the abyss.
Before Remi, the only person I’d ever cared about was the one I couldn’t even remember. Not really. A child’s memory, faded with time, slipping away like sand through an hourglass.
I stubbed out my cigarette with a hiss and locked eyes with him. “Let’s go,” I growled.
“Where?” Remi asked, following behind me to the elevator.
“The DeMarco compound.”
We slipped inside, the doors sliding shut with a quiet pssh.
“When we get there, once I’m in the meeting and everyone is occupied,” I murmured, my voice low and firm, “I want you to search the house. His office. His room. Find anything that ties into this.”
Remi blinked up at me, silent but understanding. He didn’t need to ask what would happen once we had proof. He knew.
He knew the lengths I’d go to for the truth.
He knew the vengeance I’d enact when I uncovered it.
I didn’t trust anyone in this world—except Remi. He had proven his loyalty, not with empty words but by offering his life without hesitation. It only fed the sickness I had for him.
It wasn’t just loyalty. It was obsession. A quiet, all-consuming poison fusing into my bones like a cancer.
My Ninja H2R roared to life beneath me, the vibrations rattling through my chest. The only things keeping me tethered to reality were Remi’s hands gripping my waist and the thrumming engine between my legs.
Everything else? It was nothing. The streets blurred. The countryside vanished. Until the blackened iron gates of the DeMarco compound materialized before us. The DeMarco crest gleamed in the dim light. A sigil of power and blood. Fear and control.
I felt it before I saw it—the shift in the air. Tension coiled around the compound, thick enough to choke on. By the time we reached the inner courtyard, the security presence had tripled.
Men were stationed at every entrance, their hands hovering near their weapons, their eyes scanning the perimeter like they were expecting an attack or worse—preparing for one.
I barely had time to kill the engine before three men stepped forward, shifting uneasily under my gaze as I removed my helmet. Their shoulders went rigid. Their expressions were blank, like they were trained to be. But I saw it—the flinch.
A smirk curled my lips. They knew who to fear, and I drank it in. My father may have been a monster, but he had shaped me in his image. If he was the devil, I was the antichrist.
I was the darkness that stalked them in their nightmares. The thing that slithered through their thoughts in the quiet moments.
Their lives?
They hinged on my whim.
I swung my leg off the bike, my boots hitting the stone with purpose. I turned to Remi and nodded toward the entrance. “Stay close.”
Remi didn’t argue, falling in step with me like my shadow. But as we stepped toward the doors, something coiled in my gut.
Something cold.
Something final.
A feeling like the world had just tipped—a moment too late to stop whatever was coming.
The doors swung open. “Domino,” Bernard greeted, a tight smile pressed to his lips. “A wonderful surprise.”
A warning. His words weren’t a formality. They were caution wrapped in pleasantries.
“Your father and his men are in the great room.”
A den of vipers laying in wait. They thought I feared them because I was younger, under the illusion that my father had me collared and chained. But that shackle had fallen away a long time ago—along with my sanity.
Rage twisted through my veins, tightly leashed.
I clapped Bernard on the shoulder. “Berny.” I gestured toward Remi. “This is?—”
“Remi,” Bernard cut in, dipping his head. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
His gaze flicked to Remi, something dark passing through his expression before he extended a hand. Remi hesitated but shook it.
“Make sure he’s?—“
“He will be safe within these walls,” Bernard said firmly, his voice edged with steel. “Wherever he may need to go...”
“Good.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “My loyalty is to you and you alone.”
Shock crashed over me, the indifference in my cold mask unbreakable. The implication of his words was not lost on me. He’d chosen a side when lines hadn’t even been drawn in the sand.
And with that, Bernard ushered him away. “This way, Remi. Let’s get you a drink.”
Their voices faded as they disappeared into the vast house, and I turned, heading in the opposite direction toward the great room where Federico liked to hold his meetings when numbers were required as a show of strength. His frailty was becoming evident in his need to amass his men to his cause.
The hallway stretched before me, dark walls lined with portraits of DeMarcos past. Cold, judging faces stared down at me. A legacy I’d been trained to want. A legacy I’d been promised. But as with all things in this world, it was built on an insurmountable mountain of blood and lies.
Power. Control. Death.
That was the true inheritance Federico DeMarco wanted to pass on to me—not this compound, his millions, or his kingdom of cowards. And I didn’t want it.
I craved something else. Destruction. Annihilation. Power that would be granted to me not by men but by gods. I didn’t want an army. I wanted death itself to bow at my feet. I wanted to wield it like a weapon.
Blood-slicked hands. Final heartbeats. Glazed-over eyes staring into nothing. That was power. That’s what I wanted, and it was mine for the taking.
The double doors loomed ahead, thick mahogany polished to a gleam. Beyond them, voices rumbled—low, sharp-edged words laced with irritation and restraint. Twelve men, maybe more. My father’s inner circle.
Federico DeMarco didn’t tolerate incompetence. If you made it to his table—his inner sanctum— it meant you were ruthless, loyal, and fucking useful.
As I pushed the doors open and strode through, the conversation died. Words collapsed into silence as every head turned in my direction. The sudden stillness was suffocating, a vice wrapped around the room.
At the center of the Great Room—what the lower ranks called the War Room—a long, dark wooden table stretched, large enough to seat twenty. At its head, Federico sat like a king rotting on his throne, his enforcers and advisors flanking him like well-dressed jackals.
Cigar smoke curled through the air, thick and heavy, filtered by the weak sunlight from the wall of glass that overlooked the manicured gardens. Whiskey glinted in an array of cut crystal glasses on the table, untouched, forgotten.
I didn’t rush as they waited. I circled them. Slow. Controlled. Letting the silence stretch, letting it grow thick enough to choke. My gaze landed on each of them in turn—men who had ordered deaths, conquered territory, and broken men beyond repair. They would stab each other in the back in a heartbeat if it meant they were another rung up the ladder.
One by one, they dropped their gazes in begrudging deference. They knew who held the real power in the room. Who held their life and the lives of their families in the palm of their hand.
A room full of powerful men—made men—flinched before me.
Their fear was a heady fucking thing.
Federico exhaled sharply, his scornful scoff cutting through the silence like a blade. He leaned back in his chair, draping one arm casually over the side, but I didn’t miss the tremor in his fingers. His face was unreadable, but his eyes? They burned with hate.
“Domino.” His voice rasped, low but firm. “Sit.”
I didn’t. “Father,” I greeted evenly.
His jaw ticked. “You took your time.”
I tilted my head. “I didn’t realize we were on a schedule.” My voice was light. Mocking. “Traffic was… hectic in the city.”
Federico’s fingers drummed once against the table before stilling. A warning. “Don’t test me, boy.”
I smirked, slow and sharp. Not a single ounce of warmth in it. His nostrils flared. He was waiting for me to fold. I never did.
My father leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. “You think you’re ready to carry the DeMarco name?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to, just held his gaze with an unwavering intensity. A silent challenge.
Federico’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t even deal with the fucking Gallos.”
The air crackled between us.
His voice sharpened. “They’re running riot through my ports—” he paused, a correction, an afterthought. “Our ports. They’re disrupting shipments, making us look weak.”
I said nothing. Because the only one who looked weak was him. The only one who hadn’t lifted a finger or gun was him. I’d slaughtered and buried Gallos in shallow graves across our territory. I’d stained Marlow Heights red so deeply it had seeped into the foundation of the city.
And yet, Federico sat there seething.
He had always been a slave to his temper. He mistook rage for power. Control for dominance. But now, his men were watching. Measuring.
My silence was pushing him closer to the edge.
The veins in his forehead throbbed before he slammed a fist onto the table. The whiskey glasses rattled. His voice cut like steel—“And you do nothing!”
A murmur rippled down the table. Dissent. Small. But unmistakably there.
Giancarlo’s voice cut through the silence, “You sit on your hands while the Gallos piss on our empire.” His tone was cold, a calculated knife to the throat. “And yet, we still pretend Federico’s in control.”
I swallowed the laugh that climbed my throat. Eyes snapped to Giancarlo. Then to Federico. Then to me.
A hush settled as tensions rose. No one spoke, although it was clear to see silent words forming on their lips. I felt the shift before it happened. The air thickened, turning electric. Hands twitched toward weapons. Bodies shifted. A fraction of hesitation. A moment of reckoning.
I tracked my father’s movements. Watched as his lips curled, a ghost of a sneer crept onto his face. In my mind, I heard his voice. A lesson from my childhood, burned into memory.
“If anyone challenges you in the open, make it a public execution. Send that message home with their blood. Don’t show weakness.”
Federico moved as swiftly as he was able. His hand dipped beneath the table. I could read him like a child’s book. Before he could pull his gun, I moved first. My movements were swift and sure.
A knife buried deep into the wood—right between his fingers. The room erupted into chaos like the snap of an elastic band. Everything changed in a fraction of a second. Chairs scraped. Hands flew to weapons. Chaos capitulated into madness around us.
Federico’s nostrils flared, his other hand twitching toward his gun. I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. I was already at his shoulder and leaned in slightly, voice low, almost amused. “Careful, old man,” I murmured. “You’re making it too easy for them.”
His eyes burned. Rage. Hate. But beneath it?
Fear.
Because this—this was the beginning of the end. He lost control of his most faithful flock. The king had lost his crown. As the sound of bullets rang out and the sharp scent of gunpowder filled the air, he shrank back.
A hollow laugh ripped out of my chest as he stumbled toward the sideboard—toward the hidden tunnels. No one stopped him. Not one man in the room noticed his departure. No one but me.
I pulled the Glock from my belt and fired off two rounds into the chain that held up the chandelier, crashing it down on the table. Every single man froze, arms outstretched, guns aimed at each other, but their attention was on me.
“Either fall in line and bend the knee to me or say your goodbyes in your prayers.”
The words cut the room like ice, and five men dropped to their knees, heads bowed. In less than a heartbeat, the first man fell. Then another. Then another. A bullet between the eyes.
The last thing they saw?
Me.
The doors opened to the hallway, and in stepped Bernard. “I’ll have this cleaned up right away.”
“Thank you.” My eyes narrowed when I realized he was alone. A sharp inhale was all I managed before Bernard answered my unspoken question.
“He’s upstairs in Federico’s room.”
The pounding of my footsteps was absorbed by the thick carpet as I climbed the stairs two at a time. Each step was a drumbeat in my head, driving me forward . A prickle of unease slithered down my spine.
Federico was injured, but a wounded animal was often the most dangerous. I knew Remi could handle himself—he never went anywhere unarmed—but Federico had years of experience. These walls, these hidden tunnels—they were his. He could be anywhere in an instant.
I hit the landing, my breath even, my muscles coiled tight. Federico had a panic room installed after his injury, a fortress built into the bones of this house. I was certain that was where he was heading. Where cowards hid until their reinforcements arrived.
Gun raised. Arm steady. I moved like a phantom through the hall. Silent. Predatory. Eyes darting, checking for any guards that might be patrolling the upper levels.
A noise carried through the still air. Low and dangerous. I slowed, my breath evening out, my heart hammering a steady rhythm against my ribs. I followed the sound, every step measured, each movement precise.
“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” Federico’s voice was raw with rage.
I kept to the shadows, moving closer until I could see through the partially open door. The angle kept me hidden, my presence nothing more than a whisper in the air.
Remi stood in the center of the room, his body still. Tense. A statue carved from ice and violence. But I saw the tightness around his eyes. Fear.
Federico had a gun raised, aimed directly at Remi’s head. His posture was loose but controlled. Calculating. A man who had spent his entire life deciding who lived and who died.
Remi didn’t flinch. He didn’t cower. Fuck, he was beautiful like this. On edge. Calculating.
Every instinct in my body screamed at me to intervene. To put a bullet between Federico’s eyes before his finger so much as twitched.
But I didn’t.
Because I wanted to see what Remi would do.
“I was looking for proof,” he said, voice level. Flat. “Proof that you arranged Domino’s mother’s death.”
Federico scoffed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe the audacity. “You little freaks don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My fingers tightened around my gun. The way he said it—dismissive, like we were nothing.
Remi’s gaze flickered downward. Files and papers were scattered across the floor. Shattered truths.
His voice turned to steel. “All the proof I need is right there. The question is—why?”
“You don’t need to worry yourself about details you wouldn’t understand.” His voice dropped into something almost amused. Cruel. Then he tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You’re a cheap fuck. A distraction for my son. Nothing more.”
Remi didn’t flinch. I’d proved myself to him just like he had to me. There was nothing in this world that could tear us apart.
Federico cocked the gun, adjusting his stance. He tightened his aim. “And it’s about time I took out the trash.”
Something in me snapped. But I didn’t move. Not yet. I watched with unnerving focus. Tracked the way Federico’s shoulders locked, his stance squared. He was going to fire.
Remi must have sensed it, too. He shifted slightly, his lips parting—stalling. Fuck, he was perfect.
“If I’m going to die,” he said, voice steady, “you might as well tell me.” A small pause. Calculated. “Because we all know no one hears a dead man’s word.”
A sharp, dangerous grin split Federico’s face. His head tipped back on his shoulders and laughed. Cold. Cruel. Certain. That’s when he gave me exactly what I wanted. What I’d needed.
“Of course I killed her,” his tone almost bored. “She got in the way. She was going to ruin everything. And that baby of hers?” His head tilted slightly. Mocking. “An abomination.”
Remi’s hands curled into fists. His right hand shifted, fingers brushing over the strap around his forearm—where his knife was hidden.
Federico continued, oblivious to the danger standing in front of him. “But I trained him right. Broke him. And now? He’s my greatest weapon.”
I moved then like a shadow slipping through the room until I was right behind him. I pressed the cold metal of my Glock against his ear.
Federico sensed me too late. His finger tightened on the trigger?—
But I fired first. The gunshot cracked through the air like thunder. Blood sprayed as Federico collapsed forward, clutching his mangled, ringing ear. His gun clattered to the floor, and I quickly kicked it away. His screams were delicious.
He writhed, his breath coming in short, ragged pants. Wet, furious sounds spluttered from his lips. I huffed a laugh and knelt, pressing my knee to his chest. Let him feel the weight of his mistakes.
The barrel of my gun found his temple. His eyes were wide with shock, like he couldn’t believe I was there.
That’s what happened when you got comfortable. You made mistakes.
“You fucked up, old man.” My voice was low. Even. Deadly.
He sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath.
“She was a good woman,” I murmured. “And she didn’t deserve to die.”
Before he could speak, I pistol-whipped him. The crack of metal against bone was sickening perfection.
Federico’s body went slack. Blood leaked from his temple, pooling across the hardwood like ink.
Blissful silence filled the room. I rose to my feet, turning to Remi as he stood there, unmoving. His face was blank, but his eyes—his eyes were dark, stormy.
I stepped toward him. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step away. I reached out, my fingers brushing over his cheek. Blood—Federico’s blood—smeared against his skin.
He didn’t react. Didn’t breathe. Just kept his ice-blue eyes locked on mine. Then—slowly—he exhaled, and his eyes fluttered closed. I traced the line of his jaw with my thumb, relishing in the way his pulse thrummed beneath his skin.
We didn’t speak.
We didn’t need to.
Because this?
This was just the beginning.