Chapter 24 Dominic
Chapter twenty-four
Dominic
I watch as the doctor wraps a bandage around Matteo’s head and chest. Half his face is swollen, a black eye already turning purple, a fractured rib, and one hand taped where a knuckle split open.
He insisted he didn’t need a doctor, but with all the fucking mishaps going on in this mafia, a dying second-in-command is the last thing I need.
By the time the doctor exits the room, the questions in my head are loud enough to taste.
Dragging a palm down my jaw, I keep my eyes fixated on the door.
“We have to fucking find that mole before we sustain even greater casualties.” Matteo grunts, a sound mixed with pain and anger.
I snap my gaze to him. Of course. But what fucking bastard is sleek enough to remain several steps ahead of us?
Something foul explodes in my chest as I study Matteo, debating whether or not to tell him what’s on my mind. Only both of us were privy to that information. And I didn’t fucking dish it out. That automatically leaves me with one person.
I’ve never had a reason to doubt Matteo, but I won’t lie—imagining him as anything but a loyalist is starting to feel necessary.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I ignore it, pacing the length of the small room. I yank my fingers through my hair, tugging harshly at the strands when my phone starts to vibrate again.
“Goddammit,” I hiss, digging it out.
My chest jolts, then drops when I see the name. Marcello. I haven’t needed him in months, not since that fucking journalist tried to drag my reputation through the mud. If my publicist is calling, it’s not to ask how my night’s going.
I jab the button, putting it on speaker. “Marcello.”
“Mr. Moretti, there’s a video circulating,” he begins without preamble.
“How bad?” My voice stays flat because anger tastes better than panic.
“I just sent it to you.”
I open the attachment he sent, and the video that fills the screen makes my blood boil.
Me, on a bed with Sabrina. Her head is thrown back, mouth parted in a soundless moan, and her hands clawing at my shoulders as my body moves over hers.
It’s obscene how convincing it looks, yet a dozen little things are wrong if you know where to look.
The light is too smooth, the motion almost too clean, and our skin bends wrong at the edges. Unfortunately, most people won’t pause for the details. They’ll see Dominic Moretti in a compromising position with a woman who isn’t his wife.
My hands go white around the phone. “It’s a fake,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“Technically, yes. But it’s convincing enough in a scroll. I can start takedowns, push a deepfake narrative, get our forensics on it—”
“Do whatever the fuck you have to do to take it down in the next thirty minutes.”
I hang up before he can answer. For a moment, the room is silent except for the grind of my teeth. Matteo looks at me expectantly, but I ignore him, striding to take a seat on a small chair tucked into a corner of the room.
I don’t care about headlines. I don’t care about wolves on social media or vultures in the press. Let them feast. Until a thought drills straight through my rage.
There’s one person I care about. My wife. It surprises me the way it lands. When did she stop being just a complication and become the axis my whole fucking life tilts on? Somewhere between the lies, the blood, and the nights I swore I didn’t need anyone, she slipped past my guard.
My stomach knots tighter than when I’ve had a blade pressed to my ribs. What if she’s already seen it? What if she believes it?
The world can paint me as a liar, a cheat, a man with no loyalty. I don’t give a fuck. But if she sees this, if she believes it, even for a second, and thinks I betrayed her…Fuck!
Suddenly, I remember the date. My eyes quickly find the clock again, and I see that it’s past 11 p.m. I’m definitely late for the date but there are more pressing issues. The only things I should care about right now are my public image and the mafia. Everything else is secondary.
“Matteo, run me through the items you found at Benny’s again.”
He adjusts slightly on the chair with a low wince.
“Just a few mundane items. Wallets, keys, gifts, watches, a cigarette case…” he trails off, and I recall the look on Benny’s face when he gave up the ghost. He’d seemed proud.
Bastard had died taking what he knew to the grave.
He died protecting somebody—somebody worth dying for.
“He died for someone worth protecting,” I say, my mind already assessing a million different scenarios.
“Perhaps he died protecting family?”
I shake my head. “What if he died protecting a lover?”
“We’ve gone over this before, Boss. We scanned his background, found the ex-girlfriend he used to date and she doesn’t know anything. They broke up a month ago.”
Gripping the edge of the chair, I let out a steady exhale to even my breathing. Surely there must be something tangible on Benny. He’s the closest we’ve been to the mole, and right now, he is the only option to stop this shit going on.
I turn to Matteo. “I want to see the bastard’s items again.”
Matteo nods and instantly shoots to his feet, but falls back from the momentum. He groans, but I’m beside him in a flash, helping him up, out of the doctor’s office, and outside to the car.
In the driver’s seat, I turn on the ignition and hit the gas, my knuckles blanching against the wheel. A plethora of thoughts hits me, and with each speed I hit on the speedometer, my mind spins a whole lot of conspiracy theories.
What if there’s no mole and I’m somehow being watched? Maybe my phone is tapped? Who released that fucking video with Sabrina and why? Has the journalist come back for revenge?
We arrive at the mansion, and I waste no time getting out of the car, gesturing to two guards to help Matteo inside. When I get inside, my steps falter at the sight of the neatly decorated table in the dining room.
Bella…
For a split second, I debate going to her room, but quickly decide against it. I stride to my office, yanking the door open before sinking into my chair.
“Fuck!” My hand crashes heavily against the table. It does nothing to contain the anger brimming in my chest. Matteo enters a few seconds later and drops a clear bag packed with Benny’s items.
My jaw tightens as I work to open the bag and spill its contents on the table. Wallet, keys, a scuffed watch, loose bills, a birthday card, and a pair of stud earrings in a small jewelry box. Some of the items are gifts, probably from his lover.
I continue rifling through more of the stuff when my hand grazes a cigarette case. It looks normal, silver, polished and gleaming under the overhead fluorescent bulb, but something about it pulls me in.
A quick glance at Matteo tells me he doesn’t understand my interest in the case. I snap it open with a crisp click to find an untouched row of cigarettes. Staring at it for a while doesn’t give me answers, so I release a frustrated breath, tug one cigarette out, and find a lighter.
As I light the cigarette buried between my knuckles, I see something. Right there, underneath the lid of the case, is a small, almost invisible engraving—from me to you.
I narrow my eyes at this, brushing my thumb over the surface, and that’s when I see another engraving just below it. Loyalty first, written in Italian. That’s my creed…the mafia’s mantra.
Then it hits me. This, too, was a gift. But this is no gift from a woman. No woman would send a cigarette case with such emotionless words that almost seemed hidden…like they didn’t want anyone to know the words were there.
“This cigarette case is not a gift from his ex,” I grit out without glancing at Matteo, but he quickly shuffles closer and takes a look. We’d thought the gift items were from his ex before they broke up.
A woman would have sent perfumes, key holders…whatever sentimental shit. But this…it lacks a woman’s touch.
Matteo slides his gaze to me, his brows slanting downwards.
“Women give sentimental gifts.” I stand sharply as the pieces slowly start to fall into place. “But this…no I love you, plus it has engravings in places that feel like they were deliberately hidden. Italian engravings, Matteo.”
His ex is British, and when Matteo questioned her, she said they broke up because she found out he was in the mafia. She wouldn’t write such engravings.
Matteo’s eyes slowly widen. “It was a gift from a man in this mafia,” he breathes.
“Pull every fucking feed we have. Patrol reports, access logs, footage from months ago,” I demand, my voice growing low. “Find me the man who was always around but never had a reason to be. Trova quel bastardo (Find that bastard), Matteo.”
“Sì, Capo.” He nods and wobbles out the door.
Almost instantly, I turn to the table and launch a kick at its leg. It doesn’t budge, and that angers me even more.
“Fucking hell!” I hurl another kick at its leg, my breath pulling out in slow, ragged pants. That damn bastard was right under our noses and we fucking missed it!
My fingers quake, itching to spill blood as I bring the cigarette to my lips and take a greedy drag. When that bastard is found, I swear he’ll wish he had never been born.
Hours grind by as I wait, different thoughts sprawling through my head. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, glancing at the lit screen.
It’s Matteo updating me, although he has nothing solid yet. As I’m about to shove the phone back in my pocket, I see a message I missed earlier from Grimaldi.
I assume you’ve seen the video and have an explanation?
I make a mental note to enlighten him once I get to the bottom of the charade. My thumb fiddles against the screen, opening and navigating to X when I see a large number of silenced notifications.
Fuck. The video Marcello sent me is spreading faster than a virus, and there are a lot of hate comments under one of my posts, even though comments have been limited.
None of it gets to me as I read through them.
They’re all gullible fools with nothing better to do than swarm around compromising headlines like fucking maggots.
But one hateful comment about Bella makes my jaw tick. Then I start to see more until I fling the phone against the wall. Fuck!
Instantly, I shoot up and head to her room. She doesn’t use social media, but there’s no fucking doubt that information has somehow reached her and she’s seen the many comments about her physical appearance.
When I get to her door, I pause, and my heart rate increases ever so slightly. I’ve faced gunfire without flinching, murdered men in the most cynical ways, but this…something about all of this makes my chest heavy.
I release a grunt of irritation and knock once. No answer. I try again, and I’m met with silence. My patience shatters, and I twist the knob open.
The sound of her sobs is the first thing I hear before I see her, kneeling and hunched over her bed, her hair spilling around her like drenched curtains.
For the longest moment, I hold my breath and stand there, feeling needles prick my chest at the sight of her trembling shoulders. I’ve never been in a situation where my silence is mistaken for anything other than anger. But even when I try to force the words out, all I can say is her name.
“Bella...”
As if she just registered my presence, she freezes and whirls her head toward me. Fuck. I clench my fists at her expression. Red, swollen eyes that stare at me with a mix of contempt and anger I didn’t know she had in her.
In a split second, she surges to her feet, closes the distance between us, and strikes her palm across my cheek. Hard.
“Fuck you,” she spits with fire in her gaze.