Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
DOMINIC
I am fucking livid.
The more Vane lies to my face, the angrier I get, lashing out at him with violent, relentless precision.
I hate that I left Rosalia sitting outside in the car with only the driver to watch over her.
This was supposed to be a quick, five-minute interrogation, but Vane is making it agonizingly difficult.
I’ve been hunting for him and his counterpart ever since Harold spilled their names under pressure, but this bastard has been sleeker than an eel, slipping through every trap I set.
When Keane called to say they’d finally bagged him, I couldn’t resist the urge to stop by since we were already in the neighborhood.
But now, looking at the clock, I realize how stupid it was to bring this filth anywhere near my wife, leaving her out there alone.
The entire room is a bloody mess after ten minutes of tearing Vane apart, and normally, I could drag this out for another hour.
Vane isn't strong. He's breaking, and if I took my time, I could squeeze every last secret out of his throat.
But the thought of Rosalia waiting outside makes me too uncomfortable, too impatient.
I don't have time for this tonight.
I turn my head toward my second-in-command. "Keane. Give me the knife."
Vane’s bloody, swollen face contorts in sheer terror, his voice cracking as he begins to sob and beg for his life. "Dominic, please—wait! Please, I'll talk—"
Too fucking late, buddy.
Keane doesn't hesitate, pulling the blade from his belt and handing me the hilt.
I step forward, grab Vane by the jaw, and drive the knife straight into his eye socket, twisting the blade hard.
A blood-curdling scream rips through his throat before his body goes entirely limp against the restraints. I pull the steel free, wiping the blood on my handkerchief, and toss the rag aside.
I turn to Keane, my voice devoid of any emotion. "Clean this up."
I turn on my heel to walk out, but the moment I face the doorway, the blood in my veins runs dead cold.
Standing right there in the shadows of the threshold is Rosalia. Her wide, unblinking eyes are locked directly onto Vane's lifeless body.
A surge of cold fury instantly replaces the adrenaline in my veins.
"What the hell are you doing out of the car, Rosalia?" My voice booms across the concrete room, terrifyingly loud and sharp.
I close the distance between us in three quick strides, stepping directly into her line of sight to block the gruesome view of Vane's bloody corpse. I grab her upper arms—not enough to bruise, but tight enough to anchor her—my breathing heavy, my jaw clenched so hard it aches.
"I gave you a direct order to stay inside the vehicle," I bite out, the raw anger pouring out of me.
Part of it is pure, unadulterated fury that she disobeyed me, that she put herself in harm's way without a second thought.
But deeper than that—burrowed beneath the anger like a jagged piece of glass—is a sudden, sickening knot of panic.
She saw it. She saw exactly what I am. She saw the monster beneath the tailored suits, and now the fragile thread of progress we made today is entirely shattered.
She's going to look at me with the same sheer terror she has for her father.
Rosalia doesn't say a word. She doesn't yell, she doesn't cry out, and to my absolute shock, she doesn't pull away or run from me. Her pale face remains completely unreadable, her dark eyes shifting from the floor up to mine, potent and silent.
"Car. Now." I growl, dropping my hands.
Without a single protest, she turns on her heel and walks out of the building. I follow a pace behind her, my chest tight as I watch her slip back into the rear seat of the car. I slide in beside her, slamming the door shut with enough force to shake the frame.
The drive home is suffocatingly quiet. Neither of us utters a single sound, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on while she stares quietly out the window and I sit beside her, consumed by a dark, spiraling silence.
Even after we arrive at the estate and step into the quiet foyer, Rosalia doesn’t speak. She moves through the house like a ghost.
It’s driving me out of my fucking mind.
I want to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, and demand to know every single thought spiraling behind those quiet eyes.
But for the first time in my life, I hesitate.
A rare, cowardly voice in the back of my head tells me to leave her alone—because I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to hear the truth if she tells me she despises me.
She takes her shower first, shutting herself in the bathroom without so much as a glance in my direction. By the time I finish taking my own cold shower after her, attempting to wash the metallic scent of blood from my skin, she is already in bed.
She’s curled on her side, facing the dark wall, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as if she’s already asleep. I know she isn’t. But even when I stand right by the foot of the bed and change into my briefs, her gaze doesn't wander toward me like it did the other night. She doesn't move a muscle.
I climb into the sheets beside her, keeping to my side of the mattress, the space between us feeling wide enough to carve a canyon through.
Staring up at the dark ceiling, the silence of the bedroom closing in around me, a bitter realization settles heavy in my chest.
I’ve allowed Rosalia to burrow under my skin in ways I never should have let any woman touch. I’ve lost control of the one thing I promised myself I’d command—and by letting her see the rot on my hands tonight, I have fucked up royally.
And I have no one to blame for it but myself.
As usual, I’m up early before Rosalia the next morning.
The moment I open my eyes, that same crippling weight of worry slams into my chest so hard I let out an audible groan against the pillow.
Fuck. I should be way past this feeling. I’m not some wide-eyed kid agonizing over a girl; I’m a man who commands an empire.
Desperate to flush the chaos out of my head, I roll out of bed and head straight to the private gym downstairs, eager to let a brutal workout knock some damn sense back into me.
Iron and sweat have always been the only things capable of giving me total clarity and focus.
After a solid hour in the gym, it becomes painfully clear that it’s not working.
My focus is completely shot. I’ve been making amateur mistakes the entire session—hell, I almost crushed my foot dropping a heavy dumbbell—and I finally accept that pushing iron isn't going to clear my head today.
I could simply talk to Rosalia, but communicating with her is like navigating a minefield. She has so many secrets built up, hates so many things about the world she was forced into, that the cold reality of it pisses me off just as much as it breaks my fucking heart.
Giving up on the workout, I wipe the sweat from my neck and head out to the private garage tucked behind the estate.
It is one of the rare places in my life where I'm not surrounded by business, blood, or violence. Here, I work on my collection of old cars—a private hobby only my personal friends, Keane and Helena, know about.
I’m comfortable out here because no one expects anything from me except silence and tools. There are no high-stake negotiations, no traitors to interrogate, and no fragile wives to terrify.
I pull out a heavy toolbox, set it beside a vintage car I bought for a ridiculous amount of money two years ago, and pop the hood, finally letting the quiet take over.
I lean over the open engine bay, allowing the familiar smell of motor oil and cold steel to wrap around me, grounding me in a way nothing else can.
The car is a classic 1969 Dodge Charger—a beast of a machine that had been rotting in some collector’s barn before I bought it. It’s a complete restoration project, a mess of worn-out parts and misaligned timing.
Right now, I'm focusing on the carburetor and the fuel delivery system. The engine has been idling rough, sputtering like a dying flame whenever I turn the key, and I know the air-fuel mixture is all out of order.
I pick up a socket wrench, selecting the exact size by muscle memory, and begin loosening the bolts on the air cleaner assembly.
I don't have to calculate every move, anticipate an enemy's next strike, or command a room filled with dangerous men. An engine doesn't lie to you. It doesn't play power games or hold grudges. If something is broken, it's because a part is worn down or out of place.
It’s simple, logical, and entirely within my control.
I pull off the housing, exposing the twin-barrel carburetor beneath. My fingers work with quiet patience. I carefully clean out the clogged jets, wiping away decades of grime with a rag, before adjusting the idle mixture screws by tiny, precise increments.
With every turn of the wrench, the chaotic noise in my head begins to dim.
"Ahem." Someone clears their throat behind me, and I don’t even need to turn around to know it’s Helena.
"What?" I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the carburetor.
She walks over, her footsteps echoing against the concrete floor until she comes to stand right beside me at the front of the vehicle. She leans against the metal fender, looking down at me with those sharp, perceptive eyes. "Are you okay?"
"Why wouldn’t I be?" I bite back smoothly.
I know I’m being an asshole, but that’s the entire reason I came out here—to be left alone, to recalibrate without an audience. Helena usually knows better than to bother me when I’m hiding out in this garage.
"What's the problem, Helena?" I ask, tightening a bolt just a little harder than necessary.
"You seem to be the one with the problem," she replies calmly, leaning back with her arms crossed. "I know by now that anytime you're out here covered in grease at seven in the morning, it's because something is heavy on your mind."
I roll my eyes, refusing to make eye contact.
I don’t want to talk about what I’m feeling with anyone.
Hell, I don’t even fully understand it myself.
It’s embarrassing enough as it is—the fact that I am out here losing sleep and pining after a woman who was supposed to be nothing more than a strategic business transaction.
Helena is a close ally and one of the very few people on this earth I actually trust. She saved my life years ago, which is why she holds a permanent, respected place in my house. She knows more about the real Dominic Kane than most of my soldiers ever will.
But this? This is something even she wouldn’t understand.
"Leave me alone, Helena," I say, my tone dropping into a low, firm warning.
Instead of taking offense, she just steps closer and gently pats my shoulder. "Breakfast is ready. I’ve already sent someone upstairs to call Rosalia down. She’ll be in the dining room soon. Come join us."
She gives my shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before turning on her heel and walking away.
Fuck.
There goes the tiny shred of calm and sanity I had managed to build up over the last hour. Wiped out instantly at the mere mention of Rosalia's name.
A dark impulse makes me want to hurl Helena across the garage for dragging her back into my head, but I just close my eyes, forcing slow, deep breaths into my lungs as I listen to the fading sound of her footsteps, completely unaware of the chaos she just reignited.
Fuck Helena.
Fuck breakfast.
I’d say fuck Rosalia too if I could actually bring myself to say it, but the lie wouldn't even clear my lips.
I slam the socket wrench onto the steel workbench with a sharp, deafening clatter that echoes through the high ceilings of the garage. I’m not leaving this sanctuary until I get my mind back on track.
Until I’m back to being the solid, unshakeable man I am built to be—not a fool losing my grip over a soft, silent woman who cannot bear to look at my bloodstained hands.
I grab the rag, aggressively wiping the black oil from my knuckles, staring blankly at the engine.
The silence has returned, but the peace is gone. And no matter how hard I try to fix what was broken under the hood, I know the real damage is waiting for me in the dining room.