Chapter 15
Dominic
The lights were on when Dominic walked into the private gym the next morning, some old rock song drifting from the speakers.
Cassian was already there, sprawled on the bench press, weights stacked higher than anyone else in the crew bothered attempting. He wore old basketball shorts and the same half-amused smirk as always. “You look like absolute hell, boss,” he called, racking the bar with a grunt.
Dominic walked past him toward the wall of wraps and started working them around his knuckles, tight and methodical.
Cassian sat up, towel around his neck. “Rough night?”
“You planning on working out?” Dominic said. “Or running your mouth?”
Cassian grinned wider. “Ah. Definitely a rough night.”
Dominic shot him a look that would’ve shut up anyone else. Cassian only looked more entertained. Dominic moved to the heavy bag in the center of the room. The leather was old and scarred from years of impact.
Cassian leaned against the rack, arms folded. “Something tells me,” he said, “that this isn’t about business.”
Dominic ignored him. He stepped back, planted his feet, and hit. The first punch cracked through the room, the bag jerking hard, chains rattling against steel.
Again. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each strike harder than the last. He focused on mechanics, but Knox’s face kept flashing behind his eyes.
That look in his eyes.
That slow drop to his knees.
Christ.
Dominic drove his fist into the bag hard enough to jar his shoulder.
He’d given Knox an out. The boy could’ve walked away. Could’ve said no. But he hadn’t. That was his choice. That part lodged under Dominic’s skin worse than anything.
He hit harder. The bag slammed back into him. He absorbed the impact and drove another brutal punch into the center.
He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t confused either.
He knew exactly who he was. He’d never wanted a man before—had never looked twice, never been tempted, not once in his thirty-eight years.
Whatever the hell last night had been, it had nothing to do with Knox being male.
It had everything to do with Knox being Knox, which was a distinction that should’ve been comforting and absolutely wasn’t.
A growl left his throat as his fist slammed into leather again.
Cassian had gone quiet. Which meant he was paying attention.
Dominic adjusted his footing and unloaded a combination—three body shots, pivot, cross to the side of the bag.
The impact vibrated up his arm, settling in his shoulder like punishment.
He needed the pain. Pain was simple. The bag swung back hard enough to clip his ribs.
He didn’t step away, letting the sting settle into bone as sweat dripped down his spine.
Cassian pushed off the rack and circled a little closer. His voice had lost the teasing edge. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re fighting, or am I just supposed to guess?”
“Guess.”
A quiet laugh. “Alright. Either Mercer did something spectacularly stupid… or the kid did.”
Dominic’s fist faltered, just for a second, but Cassian noticed. “Ahh,” he said softly. “So it’s the kid?”
Dominic hit the bag so hard the chain shrieked. When it swung back, he caught it and leaned his forehead against the leather, breathing hard. “He works for me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Dominic shot him a look sharp enough to cut skin. He hated how easily his cousin could read him. Always had. Even as a kid, Cassian had possessed that particular, infuriating talent for seeing through him.
Cassian held up both hands. “Alright. Fine.”
Dominic dragged a forearm across his face.
This was ridiculous. He wasn’t some confused teenager having an identity crisis.
He’d fought too hard for control—for position, for respect—to let this destabilize him.
Last night was a one-time lapse in judgment that he was perfectly capable of putting behind him and never revisiting.
He could compartmentalize this. This was nothing.
He kept hitting the bag until the noise in his head dulled from a roar to something manageable. By the time he stopped, sweat clung to his skin and soaked through his shirt. His knuckles throbbed under the wraps. He peeled one loose with his teeth, yanking harder than necessary.
Cassian had stopped pretending to do anything else. He just watched. “Whatever it is,” he said after a long moment, “you’re wound tight as hell.”
“I’m fine.”
Cassian snorted. “It’s Sunday,” he said. “My mom’s doing the usual brunch. The whole family will be there. Might do you some good. Go shower. We’ll head over.”
Dominic flexed his fingers once, feeling the ache settle deep in his knuckles.
Fine. He needed to be around something loud and familiar. Something that required nothing from him except that he showed up, ate too much, and tolerated his aunt's probing questions.
“Alright,” he said.
Cassian’s grin came back immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”
* * *
His aunt Lucia lived across town in a house that was too small for the number of people currently inside it. It stood on a quiet street lined with trimmed hedges and neatly parked cars. Modest. Well-kept. The kind of neighborhood where people knew each other’s names.
Dominic had spent most Sundays here growing up. The furniture was different now. Fresh paint on the front door. Same house.
Through the front window he could already see movement inside. Laughter spilled out onto the sidewalk before they even reached the door.
It opened before they knocked. “Finally,” his aunt said, smiling like she’d been waiting on them personally. She hugged Cassian first, then pulled Dominic into a crushing embrace. “You look tired,” she told him disapprovingly.
“I’m not.”
She gave him a look that said she knew better.
Inside, the house was warm and familiar, walls lined with family photos, shelves packed with porcelain figurines and old trophies. Voices layered over one another. The smell of onions, garlic, and sweet bread filled the air.
His mother stood near the kitchen island, laughing at something one of her brothers said. Her gray hair was clipped back loosely, soft strands brushing her cheek.
She spotted him and her expression shifted instantly. “Dominic.”
He crossed the room and kissed her cheek. She slid her hand up to his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone in the same way she had since he was a boy. “Your father’s coming later,” she said. “He had to finish something.”
His father had worked two jobs for most of Dominic’s childhood. Construction during the day, warehouse shifts at night. He’d worked more than he’d been home, but he never complained.
His mother worked too, and she carried the rest of the household without asking for credit.
They were poor enough that bills were discussed in low voices at the kitchen table.
Poor enough that new shoes meant waiting for the old ones to give out completely.
Dominic remembered the way his mother stretched groceries so five kids never quite noticed there wasn’t much to stretch.
He’d hated the permanent exhaustion in his father’s eyes. The way tension lived in his mother’s shoulders like it belonged there. He’d decided early he wouldn’t live like that. He wouldn’t measure life by what was affordable. He didn’t want “maybe next month” to be a sentence he ever had to say.
That decision had shaped everything that followed. He’d told himself he would build something big enough that the word practical never dictated his choices again.
He’d offered to move his parents to a bigger house more than once. His father had listened, considered it, then declined with calm finality. “This is our house,” he’d say.
Dominic understood the pride in that. The house represented survival on their terms. They accepted some help eventually. He paid what they let him pay. Covered things they pretended not to notice. Bought them reliable cars they would never have bought for themselves.
“Sit! Eat before it gets cold!” his aunt Lucia called.
Dominic had barely taken his seat when Abuela’s voice cut clean through the room. “Dominic.”
He looked up immediately. You didn’t ignore that tone.
She sat at the head of the table, posture straight despite her years, silver hair pinned perfectly in place. Everyone else might shout over one another, but Abuela never raised her voice. She didn’t need to; conversations dimmed around her without her having to ask for it.
“Yes, Abuela.”
“You are how old now?” she asked mildly.
Cassian leaned back in his chair beside him. “Oh, this’ll be good.”
Dominic reached for his fork. “You know how old I am.”
“I would like to hear you say it.”
A couple of cousins went quiet, sensing blood in the water.
Dominic exhaled through his nose. “Thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-eight,” Abuela repeated thoughtfully. “And not married.”
There was a brief murmur down the table. An aunt made a soft tsking sound.
He cut into his food, movements precise. “No.”
“No serious woman?”
His fork stilled briefly before resuming. “No.”
“You’re not getting younger,” one aunt added from the other side of the table. “You think you have forever?”
“I’m aware of my age,” he replied evenly.
Abuela’s gaze sharpened. “Then why do you act as if you have all the time in the world?”
Cassian lifted his wineglass. “He’s married to work,” he offered.
“That’s not a wife,” Abuela said flatly. “A man needs someone waiting for him. Someone who softens him. You come here, you eat, you leave. You carry everything alone. No female warmth.”
Cassian laughed. “Oh, he’s not missing female warmth, Abuela. Trust me.”
A few cousins snorted.
Dominic’s foot connected with Cassian’s shin under the table. Hard. Cassian sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Worth it,” he muttered, reaching for his wine.
A few more laughs circled the table before someone launched into an argument about the match. Within seconds half the table was shouting about formations and missed penalties, forks waving in the air, and the interrogation was over.
Dominic let the noise reclaim the room. He didn’t bother defending himself. They assumed it was about timing, or work, or him being too particular, and he didn’t correct them.
The truth was less complicated and harder to explain.
He liked women. He liked sex. He liked the spark, the first look, the tension, the pull of it, the moment it tipped into something physical.
But the interest rarely lasted past that point.
The second things began to settle and expectations crept in, something in him switched off.
The excitement drained, and staying started to feel like a form of dishonesty.
There were women he saw more than once, but only the ones who wanted the same thing he did. The moment it became predictable, he was already halfway out the door.
He’d tried relationships when he was younger. It hadn’t worked. He didn’t want obligation. He wanted intensity. And the two turned out to be mutually exclusive.
His work fit him for the same reason. Every day carried risk, and no two situations were ever the same. It demanded everything and gave everything back. Relationships felt slow by comparison.
Eventually, coffee replaced wine. The football argument downgraded from shouting to smug commentary. Cassian insisted he was right, an uncle insisted he wasn’t. No one changed their mind. Dominic leaned back in his chair, listening, throwing in the occasional correction just to irritate Cassian.
The back door opened, followed by his father’s familiar voice. “Sorry I’m late. Lost track of time.”
His mother looked over her shoulder. “You finished?”
“Yes. Took longer than I thought.”
There was a fresh cut across one of his dad’s knuckles and sawdust clinging to the knees of his jeans.
“What was it this time?” Dominic asked.
“The cabinet door.” His dad shrugged. “The hinge kept catching.”
One of his uncles laughed. “You can’t leave anything half done.”
His dad smiled, accepting the accusation without argument. There wasn’t much point denying something everyone at the table already knew.
Dominic got to his feet. His dad clapped him once on the shoulder before pulling him into a brief hug.
His aunt Lucia was already on her feet. “Sit,” she said, waving him toward the empty chair.
“I can fix myself a plate.”
“You’ll sit.” She disappeared into the kitchen before he could argue further. A moment later she returned with a steaming plate, setting it in front of him. The bread basket followed, nudged into his reach with a look that left no room for refusal.
Within minutes he was laughing with the rest of them, sliding into the flow of conversation as if he’d been there all along.
Dominic watched him for a moment. His father had always been like that. Whether it was a construction site, a broken cabinet, or something a neighbor needed fixed, he gave it everything he had, then he’d come home and somehow found enough energy left over for everyone else.
After a while, Dominic checked his watch and set down his cup. “We should get going.”
Cassian nodded.
They said their goodbyes. His mother pressed a container of leftovers into his hands that he hadn’t asked for. “Drive safe,” she said.
“We will.”
He and Cassian stepped out into the bright afternoon, the door closing on the noise behind them.
Before Cassian had even pulled away from the curb, Dominic had his phone out.
“Already working?” Cassian glanced sideways. “You didn’t even last a minute.”
Dominic ignored him and hit Mendez’s number.
“Yeah?” Warehouse noise hummed in the background.
“How’s he doing?” Dominic asked.
“He’s sharp,” Mendez said. “He’s asking the right questions. Not trying to prove anything. Just listening. Figuring out the flow.”
Dominic looked out at the road ahead. He’d expected that. “Good. Take him with you this afternoon.”
There was silence on the other end.
“The Carter pickup? Already?”
“I want to see how he handles it.”
“You don’t want to ease him into that?”
Dominic watched a light change ahead of them. “He doesn’t need easing.”
A quiet huff came from Mendez. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll call you after.”
Dominic ended the call.
Cassian drove two blocks before speaking. “You’re testing him again.”
Dominic looked out the window. “I want to see how he thinks.”
“And if he doesn’t like what he sees?”
Dominic didn’t hesitate. “He’ll adjust.”
Cassian looked at him, but didn’t comment.
Normally he’d let people earn access slowly, piece by piece. You didn’t throw someone into the deep before they’d learned to swim; that wasn’t efficiency, it was waste. But he’d done it with Knox anyway, he knew it, and he hadn’t stopped himself.
He told himself it was pragmatic. No point investing in someone who’d flinch when things got uglier. You found out early or you found out later, and later cost more.
That wasn’t the whole truth.
He wanted to see it—the shift in Knox’s eyes when things turned darker. Whether he’d step back or whether he’d step closer. He wanted to know what Knox would become when the illusion dropped.
And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he wanted to be the one who showed him.