Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
DOMINIC
I leave Rosalia upstairs in my suite, her sharp, defiant voice still ringing in my ears, and head straight down the quiet corridor to my study.
Keane is already inside, standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. The moment I push the double doors open, he turns, his sharp green eyes instantly tracking the mood rolling off me.
I don't say a word as I cross the room and lower myself into the heavy leather armchair behind my mahogany desk, leaning back to look at him.
"The wedding needs to happen immediately," I say, my voice cutting straight through the quiet room.
Keane doesn't even blink. He leans his hip against the edge of the desk, his expression strictly professional. "How soon are we talking?"
"Tomorrow," I reply flatly.
A low, amused chuckle escapes Keane's throat. "You’re going to make a hell of a lot of people mad with that one, Boss. Massimo is expecting a spectacle, and the DeLorenzos are still trying to figure out how you pulled this off."
My dark eyes narrow into a dangerous glare. "Do I look like I give a single fuck about making them mad?"
"Not in the slightest," Keane admits smoothly.
"There's no point in dragging this out or throwing some grand, pathetic spectacle," I growl, resting my forearms on the desk.
"Everyone in this city knows this isn't a union of love.
I'm not wasting time playing happy couple for the syndicate.
We get the vows done, we make the paperwork official, and we get straight to the business part of it. "
Keane falls silent for a moment, studying my rigid posture. Then he tilts his head, his tone dropping into something far more quiet.
"Are you planning on telling Rosalia the truth?" he asks softly. "About why you actually took her out from under her father's thumb?"
I look directly at him, my eyes entirely devoid of warmth, emotion, or compromise.
"No."
Keane sighs, running a hand over his close-cropped hair, but he nods in resignation. "I’ll make the preparations for the ceremony tomorrow. But before I get to that... our men caught Harold Sinclair."
Adrenaline sings in my blood, sharp and hot. "Where is he?"
"One of our safe houses," Keane replies, his green eyes glinting with grim satisfaction. "The boys have him tied to a chair in the basement."
Usually, I leave the wet, bloody work to my men.
I run an army; I don't need to personally break every traitor who crosses my path.
But today, my blood is pumping, and I am itching for a fight.
I am angry. Rosalia Caruso gets right under my nerves and pricks my skin with her uppity, unyielding attitude.
She can’t be all that saintly and prim as she presents herself.
She was married to Luciano DeLorenzo for ten years.
Everyone in this godforsaken city knows what kind of prick and undignified bastard Luciano actually was.
You don't survive a decade in a viper's nest like that without getting some dirt on your hands.
Yet she looks at me like I’m a savage. She sits in my house acting like she’s better than everyone else, holding her head high despite being traded like property. She gets under my skin in a way no woman ever has, and I fucking hate it. I never let anyone affect me like this. Never.
I rise to my feet, buttoning my suit jacket in one smooth, aggressive motion. "Take me to him."
As Keane and I step out of the study and head toward the garage, I let the raw anger take over my body, channeling every ounce of my frustration into the task ahead. I think about Harold Sinclair and how badly I want to break him to pieces.
We recently discovered that someone on our internal team had been selling out our private political secrets to high-level elites. Secrets that cost millions of dollars to secure—secrets that could utterly destroy me if they land in the wrong hands.
So, I set a trap. I planted false intelligence, sat back, and traced the rat straight down the line. It turned out to be Harold. The moment he figured out we were on his tail, he vanished into thin air.
Too bad for him.
The idiot should have known better. This city belongs to me. There is nowhere he can run, nowhere he can hide, where I won't eventually track him down and drag him into the dark.
And now he’s in my trap.
We head over to the safe house on the industrial edge of the city.
The moment the Escalade rolls to a stop, I swing the door open and storm inside, the heavy metal door thudding shut behind Keane and me.
I don't waste time with greetings. I head straight down the concrete stairs into the cold, damp basement.
There, illuminated by a single overhead bulb, Harold is strapped tight to a metal folding chair. Blood is already trickling from his nose, his shirt torn at the collar. The moment his eyes land on me coming out of the shadows, they widen in absolute terror.
"Dominic! Dominic, wait!" Harold stammers, his voice cracking as he thrashes against the heavy zip-ties.
"Please, man, this is all a huge misunderstanding!
You have to listen to me! Think about everything we've done—I’ve been working for you for six years!
Six years of total loyalty! I would never sell you out! "
I don't say a single fucking word. His pathetic excuses bounce off me like rain on pavement.
I walk past him to the steel workbench against the back wall and slide open the heavy metal drawer. I pull out my custom leather weapon box, unlatch the brass hooks, and flip the lid open. My fingers pass over the knives and blades, resting instead on a pair of heavy, industrial steel pliers.
I grip the rubber handle, turn around, and walk slowly back over to Harold.
His eyes drop to the tool in my hand, and all the color drains entirely from his face. "Dominic, no—please! I swear to God, it wasn't me! You have the wrong guy! Please, Dominic—"
I grab his left wrist in an iron grip, pinning his forearm flat against the wooden armrest of the chair. He screams and kicks, but I don't budge an inch. I clamp the cold teeth of the pliers firmly around the nail of his index finger.
"Dominic, wait—!"
I twist and yank backward with brutal, deliberate force.
A sickening tear echoes through the basement, instantly drowned out by Harold’s blood-curdling, high-pitched scream. He writhes violently against the restraints, tears and sweat pouring down his face as blood drips steadily onto the concrete floor.
I toss the bloody fingernail onto the floor beside his boot, leaning down until my face is inches from his pale, trembling features.
"Tell me the truth," I growl, my voice dangerously low. "Or I start on the next nine."
He begs and begs, blubbering through his tears, promising he's clean, swearing on his mother's grave. I don't give him the satisfaction of an answer. I simply slide the pliers onto his middle finger, clamp down tight, and yank off another nail bed.
His shrill, guttural scream echoes off the damp concrete walls.
The sound calms me. The raw, violent focus washes away the irritation Rosalia left in my veins, leaving a cold, sharp stillness in its place.
I remind myself to do this more often. I've been soft, delegating too much, letting my men have all the fun.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" Harold howls, his body shaking violently as blood pools over his knuckles. "It was me! I sold the access codes to the syndicate's servers! I did it!"
I let him bleed for a moment, letting the agony sink deep into his bones so he remembers exactly where he is.
"The names," I say, my voice steady, ice-cold. "Who did you give my secrets to?"
"I can't!" he cries out, fat tears washing trails through the dirt on his cheeks. "If I give you their names, they'll come for my family! They'll slaughter my wife and kids!"
I lean in closer, forcing him to look straight into my eyes. "Your enemies aren’t in this room, Harold. I am. I am the one you should fear the most. I am your judgment."
Before he can squeeze out another plea, I shift my grip and clip the pliers right onto the bridge of his nose. With a sharp, sudden jerk of my wrist, I twist—tearing flesh and snapping cartilage with a sickening crunch.
Harold’s voice shrieks into a pitch of pure agony. He thrashes against the chair, choking on his own blood as he rattles off four names without stopping to breathe.
"Archibald! Vane! Moretti! And... and Senator Hayes!" he sobs, gasping for air. "That's all of them! I swear to God, that's everyone!"
I hold the pliers steady, watching the blood stream down his chin, and study his eyes for any flicker of deceit.
"Are you sure, Harold?" I ask, my voice smooth and measured.
"Yes! Yes, I swear on my life, Dominic!" he blubbers, coughing as blood hits his lips. "I swear on my kids' lives! That's all four of them! Please, just make it stop!"
I smile—a quiet, cold thing—and slowly release the pliers. I set the bloody tool down on the wooden armrest beside his mangled hand. I reach out, gently patting his bruised, bloody cheek like an old friend comforting a sick dog.
"You did fine, Harold," I say softly. "You did real fine."
A ragged sigh of relief hitches in his throat. He looks up at me through swollen, tear-filled eyes, his voice desperate and small. "Dominic... please. Forgive me. I made a mistake. Please let me go... forgive me."
"I've forgiven you," I reply without missing a beat, my tone entirely sincere. "It's already forgotten."
His eyes begin to fill with hope. The tension leaves his slumping shoulders as he genuinely believes he's getting out of this room alive. He actually thinks there's a world where a traitor walks away from me.
"And because I have forgiven you," I say smoothly, "I want to set you free from the pain."
Before the realization can even register on his face, I whip out my piece from the holster under my jacket.
His eyes widen in sudden, blinding horror, his lips parting as he opens his mouth to scream. But before he can squeeze out a single word, I squeeze the trigger, sending a bullet straight into his skull.
The loud crack echoes off the concrete walls, and his head lolls back, instantly going limp against the chair.
I lower the weapon, step forward, and gently reach out to close his open eyes. I turn to Keane, who hasn't flinched an inch, and slide the gun back into its holster. "Let's go. Text the men to come clean this up."
I walk straight out of the basement, leaving the bloody scene behind, and Keane follows a pace behind me, his fingers already flying across his phone as he sends the message to the cleanup crew.
In the car, I stare out at the passing trees, my mind already calculating the fallout from those four names.
"Keane," I say, my voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "How many children does Harold have?"
Keane glances at me in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowing slightly before he pulls out his tablet. "Give me a minute."
I lean back against the headrest, looking out the tinted window as the city lights blur together in the afternoon shade.
A few minutes later, Keane breaks the silence. "Three kids. Ten, seven, and five. Young wife, too. Thirty-two."
I hum softly, watching a flash of guard rails pass us by on the highway. "Send some money to the wife," I tell Keane. "Make sure they have security for a year. Ensure no one touches them."
Keane nods once, his fingers moving across his tablet without missing a beat. "Understood, Boss."
Instead of heading home, I have Keane call an urgent meeting with all the top power players and key leaders of my empire. The more I sit with the names Harold bled out, the more certain I am.
Securing my grip by locking down Rosalia isn't just an advantage; it's a strike that neutralizes half our enemies in one move. The quicker I put a ring on her finger, the better it is for me and my position.
I don’t give a single damn about anyone else in this city, nor do I care what objections they'll choke on.
An hour later, I push open the double brass doors and stride into the executive board hall at the center of our downtown operations. The heavy silence in the room instantly shifts.
Every eye in the long mahogany room snaps straight to me, burning with intense curiosity and unasked questions as they wonder what emergency could possibly warrant such an abrupt sum-up.
High-ranking lieutenants, senior capos, and advisors sit rigid in their leather chairs, watching my every move, desperately trying to read the ruthless intent written across my face.
I walk to the head of the table, rest my hands flat on the polished mahogany, and lean forward. I don't wait for them to settle. I don't offer an opening greeting.
"Tomorrow morning, I am marrying Rosalia Caruso," I announce, my voice ringing out like a gavel striking stone.
The room instantly erupts into a wave of sharp gasps and panicked whispers. Senior advisors exchange shocked looks, and a few capos lean forward, their mouths opening to protest the impossible timeline.
I raise one hand, and the room suffocates back into dead silence.
"This is not a debate, and I am not asking for your input," I say, sweeping my gaze across every face in the room, letting the cold threat hang in the air.
"The arrangements are already being made.
The ceremony will happen tomorrow, the papers will be signed, and the union will be sealed. That is the end of it."