Chapter 23 #2
Before Dante can take a step toward our table, two armed bailiffs step between us, their hands resting on their holsters. "Sir, you need to exit the courtroom immediately, or you will be held in contempt!"
Dante spits on the carpet, casting one final, lethal glare at me before spinning on his heel and storming out through the heavy double doors, his legal team scurrying behind him like terrified rodents.
I stare at the doors as they swing shut, my heart hammering against my ribs, but the cold fear I usually feel around Dante never comes.
Because two large, warm hands gently cup my face, turning me away from the doors.
I look up, and the breath catches completely in my throat.
Dominic is smiling.
It isn't his usual dark, dangerous smirk or the cold, amused glint he gives his enemies. It is a full, rare, breathtaking smile that lights up his sharp features and reaches all the way to his dark eyes.
"You did it," he rumbles, his gravelly voice dripping with an unscripted, overwhelming pride. His heavy thumbs softly trace over my cheekbones, catching a single tear before it can fall. "It's all yours. Every single bit of it."
I stare at him, my heart doing a wild, erratic flip in my chest. "Dominic... we actually won."
"Of course, we did," he says softly, his smile softening into something intensely tender as he leans down to press a warm, lingering kiss to my forehead. "I told you I wouldn't let him take what belongs to you."
Looking into his eyes, hearing the quiet, absolute satisfaction in his voice, a realization hits me straight in the chest: this victory wasn't just a strategic move or a way to crush a rival.
He was genuinely, deeply happy simply because I got what I deserved. It mattered to him on a deeply personal level—because it mattered to me.
"Come on," Dominic says softly, his thumb giving my knuckles a warm, reassuring squeeze as he pulls me. "I have a bottle of a hundred-year-old vintage sitting in the cellar back at the estate. I’ve been saving it for a proper occasion."
I look up at him, raising an eyebrow with a soft laugh. "A hundred years old? You're serious?"
"Dead serious," he rumbles, a faint, rare glint of pure amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "And I think securing you this definitely qualifies. Let's go home and open it."
A bright, genuine smile spreads across my face, the last remaining threads of stress completely evaporating from my chest. "Yes. Let's go."
Dominic laces his long fingers firmly through mine, taking the lead as we walk past our smiling legal team. With his arm braced beside me and his presence solid and unwavering at my side, we step out of the heavy courtroom doors together and into the light.
The quiet of our suite envelops us the moment the door clicks shut, shutting out the rest of the world.
Dominic walks over to the wet bar, the soft glow of the amber lamps reflecting off the polished marble counter. He reaches for a heavy, dark glass bottle, uncorking it with a low, satisfying pop that echoes through the room.
"1926 vintage," Dominic says, his deep voice carrying a touch of reverence as he carefully tilts the bottle, pouring the rich, deep crimson liquid into two crystal glasses. "A hundred years old. Kept in the family cellar under temperature lock for three generations."
I lean against the counter, resting my chin in my hand as I watch him with a teasing smile. "A hundred-year-old wine? Are you sure it hasn't turned into expensive vinegar by now?"
Dominic pauses, lifting his head to shoot me a dark, amused look over the rim of the glass. "Have a little faith in my cellar. I promise you, it's aged to perfection."
He slides one glass across the slick stone to me, then picks up his own. I swirl the dark red wine, bringing it to my lips and taking a small, slow sip. The flavor is impossibly smooth—deep oak, dark cherry, and a subtle hint of spice that warms my chest instantly.
"Okay, fine," I admit, looking up at him through my lashes. "It's incredible. You win."
"I always win," he rumbles smoothly, taking a sip from his glass.
I roll my eyes with a soft laugh. "So, how long have you been hiding this bottle back there, waiting for a 'proper occasion'?"
Dominic's smirk fades into something far softer, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intense, quiet gravity. He sets his glass down on the bar, leaning forward slightly as he looks at me.
"I bought it back from the main vault the day we had sex for the first time," he admits softly, his gravelly voice dropping. "I've been holding onto it, waiting for the perfect moment to open it with you. I wasn't going to open it with anyone else."
My jaw drops, and I gawk at him in absolute silence.
It is an impossibly sweet, breathtaking sentiment. The realization that Dominic saw my victory—my freedom—as the ultimate, most precious moment to uncork a hundred-year-old bottle of wine hits me straight in the chest.
And right alongside that realization comes a quiet twist of shame that makes me want to curse myself.
Through this entire, bloody ordeal, a tiny, dark seed of doubt had been planted in the back of my mind.
He was fighting so hard. He booked that ridiculous, expensive cooking class just to corner Judge Sterling and his wife.
He hunted down the judge’s darkest secrets, orchestrating a ruthless, airtight leverage campaign.
He moved mountains, spent fortunes, and risked everything.
A cynical part of me—the part shaped by a lifetime of my father’s and late husband’s cold, transactional world—had convinced itself that Dominic must have a hidden stake in this. That he had something to gain.
I couldn't fathom that a man could do all of this purely for my happiness. No one in my life had ever gone that far for me. No one except my sisters.
Gosh. Dominic was perfect. He was truly, utterly perfect.
A rush of intense gratitude overwhelms me. I step in close, setting my glass down, and push up on my tiptoes to press a lingering, heartfelt kiss against his sharp cheekbone.
"Thank you, Dominic," I whisper against his skin, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for all your help... and for fighting so selflessly for me."
For a fraction of a second, the reaction I expect doesn't come. A dark, unreadable shadow crosses his eyes. It flickers so fast I almost miss it—a heavy, flickering glitch of something that looks dangerously like guilt or sadness.
But before I can even process it, the shadow clears, his features smoothing back into his usual, unbothered composure.
He gently reaches for my wine glass from the marble counter and places it back into my hands, his fingers brushing mine.
"It's my pleasure," he says softly, his gravelly voice smooth and controlled. "Drink up."
I swallow the rich wine, letting out a soft hum at the velvet-smooth taste on my tongue.
"I have half a feeling Dante won't hand over my things so easily," I say conversationally. "He looked like he wanted to burn the world down. With me in it."
Dominic softly shakes his head, resting his forearm against the marble bar. "The law has ruled that it's yours. If he withholds a single asset, he's committing a crime. He has no choice. He has to hand over everything—even down to Luciano's private files."
"I don't need his private files," I scoff softly, taking another small sip. "Dante can keep that junk. I just want what's rightfully mine."
Over the rim of my glass, I see something that makes me pause. A sharp flare of pure, unmistakable alarm flashes through Dominic's eyes. It hits me like a sudden jolt to the chest, ringing a loud, terrifying warning bell deep within my gut.
I set the glass down with a soft click against the marble. "What?"
Dominic catches himself instantly, smoothly laughing it off as he takes a slow sip from his own glass.
"I just want to make sure you have complete control over everything," he says smoothly, offering a small, crooked smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"After the hell he put you through—and after the horror of walking in on his body, finding him dead with his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling—you deserve every last scrap of what he left behind. "
I laugh. “"That image will haunt me for days. I am—" The words die on my tongue.
I freeze, the room spinning into a sudden, suffocating tilt as the full weight of what he just said crashes down on me.
How did Dominic know the state in which I found Luciano?
No one else knew. Absolutely no one.
When I walked into his room that night after returning from the clinic, Luciano was already cold, staring wide-eyed and lifeless up at the ceiling.
In a moment of shock, I had done him one last mercy—I had gently pulled his eyelids down, closing his eyes forever before anyone else came rushing into the room.
By the time the guards, the family, ambulance, and the police arrived, his eyes were closed.
How did Dominic know?
The rich, hundred-year-old wine suddenly turns to absolute ash in my mouth, tasting like piss on my tongue. The warmth in my chest vanishes, instantly replaced by a blaring, nauseating wave of pure dread and horror.
My hands begin to tremble, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I look up at him, the silence between us growing thick and terrifying.
"Dominic," I ask, my voice barely a whisper, thick with a cold, mounting apprehension. "How did you know his eyes were open? I had closed them."
Dominic blanches.