Chapter 8 #2
Domenico leans forward slightly, forearms resting against his knees.
"You inherited an empire built on fear." He says quietly. "And instead of hiding behind the men already running it for you, you are trying to carve out authority of your own."
His head tilts slightly, dark eyes studying me with unnerving precision.
"The Keegans are not your problem." He continues. "They are simply the hardest target in the room." A faint pause. "Which is exactly why you chose them."
I keep my expression neutral, though irritation flickers beneath my skin. "Your job is not weaving conspiracy theories."
His voice remains calm. Certain. "My job is observing patterns." He leans back slightly, gaze never leaving mine. "Your uncle undermines you publicly, does he not?" He asks. "Questions your judgement. Treats you like a temporary figurehead instead of someone capable of leading."
My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Domenico notices anyway.
"There it is." He murmurs. "I was wondering what truly motivated you."
"This assignment is business."
"It is personal." He corrects softly. "You took this job because if you succeed where others fail, nobody in your organization can question your authority again."
The words land too close to the truth. I hate that he sees it.
"You think wanting respect is some kind of weakness?"
"No." His gaze sharpens slightly. "I think wanting to prove yourself can make intelligent people reckless."
A small silence settles between us.
Then I say evenly, "Mikkel believes I am incapable of handling operations beyond negotiations and public relations. He thinks difficult work should be left to men with experience." My eyes hold his. "So yes. I accepted the Keegan assignment because I intend to prove him wrong."
Domenico studies me carefully for a moment before a slow smile appears. "That," he says quietly, "is a far more dangerous motivation than money."
Before I can answer, his eyes lower briefly. To my thigh. The subtle outline beneath my dress is barely noticeable, but of course he catches it immediately.
"You brought a gun into my home." There is no anger in his tone.
"I rarely enjoy feeling defenseless." I reply evenly. "Especially around men with your ‘alleged’ reputation."
Domenico’s gaze lingers for another second before he stands. The movement is unhurried.
I stay perfectly still as he walks toward me, though every instinct sharpens in response to his proximity. He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel heat radiating from his skin after training.
Then, without asking permission, he crouches slightly.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
His fingers slide against the holster strapped beneath my thigh, adjusting the leather. The touch itself is almost professional, but there is nothing professional about the way his knuckles brush slowly against the inside of my leg.
"This setup favors comfort over access." He says quietly.
I keep my expression neutral. "I wasn't aware I'd hired you as a weapons consultant."
"You didn't." His fingers tighten briefly against the strap before loosening again. "But if someone reaches for you in close quarters, you'll lose the angle."
His voice drops lower. "In our world, angles get people killed."
He shifts the holster higher against my thigh, the movement deliberate enough to make my pulse stumble despite myself.
"Here." He says softly. "Tighter. Easier to reach. Less hesitation."
I am suddenly far too aware of everything. The fact that his face is dangerously close to my body while he remains completely calm about it.
My fingers curl against the edge of the bench. "I do not remember asking you to touch me."
A slow smile appears on his face, though he does not look up immediately.
Domenico finally straightens to his full height, towering over me for a second before stepping back just enough to restore the illusion of space between us.
"I would never insult you by assuming your reactions are accidental."
The tension between us thickens dangerously. So I redirect it.
"The Keegans." I say coolly. "You claimed they are worse than people realize."
The shift in conversation is immediate.
Domenico grabs a black t-shirt from nearby and pulls it over his head as he walks toward the doorway, gesturing for me to follow.
"They’re protected." He says as we move through another corridor. "Politicians. Police. Shipping authorities. Entire governments profit from pretending not to see what they are."
His tone has changed now. Sharper. More serious.
"The people who tried exposing them disappeared quietly." He glances back at me briefly. "This isn’t corporate warfare, Zora. It’s stepping into a nest of vipers and hoping they bite someone else first."
He leads me into another room. This one feels colder than the rest of the estate.
Walls lined with monitors. Surveillance feeds. Financial records projected across dark screens. Maps covered in routes and coded markings. Intercepted calls. Offshore accounts. Security footage.
I stop walking for a second as realization settles in. "You were already investigating them."
"I investigate everyone worth worrying about."
His answer is casual, but the amount of information in front of me is anything but.
I move closer to one of the screens, scanning shipping routes and transaction logs. "This level of surveillance takes months."
"Longer."
I glance toward him. "Why?"
Domenico studies me briefly before answering. "Because I prefer knowing exactly who may eventually become my enemy."
The statement hangs between us heavily. Then, as if the thought occurred naturally, he asks, "Does your fiancé know you are here alone tonight?"
I look at him sharply. "That’s not your concern."
"Mm." He leans casually against the edge of the desk. "So he doesn’t."
"Sebastian and I have an arrangement."
"An arranged marriage built on business." His mouth curves slightly. "How beautifully romantic."
I narrow my eyes. "You seem unusually interested in my relationship."
"I am interested in leverage." His gaze sharpens slightly. "And in understanding how far someone is willing to go for power."
There it is again. That deliberate pressure. The constant psychological probing beneath every conversation.
"You enjoy trying to dissect people." I say.
"Maybe."
"And do you believe you have me figured out already?"
"No." Domenico says softly. "That is why I keep looking."
The honesty in the answer unsettles me more than arrogance would have.
I step closer to the screens, forcing my attention back onto the information in front of me. Then my eyes catch something familiar buried inside one of the shipping maps.
Eastern routes. A hidden deviation point near the Irish coast. Interesting.
I glance toward him slowly. "The Keegans’ eastern shipping corridor."
For the first time since arriving, Domenico’s expression changes completely. Subtle surprise.
"They think it is invisible." I continue calmly. "But the route bends too far north before rerouting back through customs. Which means they are hiding transfers somewhere offshore."
Domenico smiles slowly. I hate how much I like seeing that look on him.
"You noticed that quickly."
"You left it visible."
"I wanted to see if you were intelligent enough to catch it."
"And?"
His eyes hold mine. "You continue to exceed expectations."
The next few hours blur into strategy and arguments. Domenico pushes constantly, testing my patience, my intelligence, my limits. I push back every time, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. And somehow, that only seems to make him more interested.
By the time the conversation finally slows, the sky outside has turned completely black.
Domenico leans back in his chair, studying me with unsettling focus. "I will take the job." Relief almost surfaces before he continues. "But I have one condition."
I already dislike the look in his eyes.
"You come to Ireland with me personally."
I stare at him.
"No assistants. No security detail. No fiancé." His voice remains calm. "Just you and me."
Every instinct I possess immediately rejects the idea. It’s too risky. Too intimate. Too dangerous. And he knows it.
"You cannot seriously expect me to agree to that."
"I do not expect." He says softly. "I decide whether I work with someone."
That arrogance again.
Domenico walks toward me, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to maintain eye contact.
"Once this starts," he says quietly, "there is no walking away from it, Elf."
"Not from the job." His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. "And not from the consequences that come with it."
The warning alone should make me leave. Instead, I hold his stare and feel something terrifying settle inside me.
Because part of me already knows I am going to say yes.
Not because I trust him. Not because this is safe.
But because somewhere beneath the danger, beneath the manipulation and tension and mind games… I want to see what happens next.
The realization is reckless enough to frighten me. Still, the word leaves my mouth anyway. "Yes."
Domenico’s expression darkens slightly at my answer. Like he knew from the beginning that eventually, I would choose him over caution.