Chapter Twenty
Dominic
The silence of a mansion at three in the morning has a specific sound.
It's the sound of heavy air and shifting stone.
When the phone on my nightstand vibrated, the noise didn't just wake me up; it sliced through the peace of the room like a blade.
I didn't even have to look at the screen to know.
My gut had been tightening for hours—a primal instinct telling me the transition was finally happening.
I sat up slowly, careful not to wake Donny. The moonlight hit her face, making her look like a painting, but the weight in my chest was real. I answered the phone on the fourth vibration.
"Dom," Taz's voice was thick, devoid of its usual clinical edge. "It's time. Your mother just called from the medical wing. He's fading fast."
I didn't say anything; I couldn't. I just hung up, pulled on a black hoodie and joggers, and stood over the bed for a second. I wanted to leave her there, protected from the cold reality of death, but I knew she'd never forgive me. I reached down, gently shaking her shoulder.
"Donny," I whispered, "wake up, baby. Pop is leaving us."
The drive from our wing to the main house felt like it took a lifetime.
When we stepped into the medical suite, the smell of antiseptic and expensive cigars hit me—a strange mix that defined my father's final year.
Elena was sitting by the bed, her hand locked onto his, her face a mask of grief.
She didn't cry; Masters women didn't break, even though I knew she wanted to.
My father looked small. The man who had once been a giant in the streets was now just a collection of bones and memories wrapped in silk sheets. His eyes fluttered open when I stepped to the bedside. He didn't look at the monitors or the IVs; he looked straight at me.
"The… the empire," he wheezed, the sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement.
"It's solid, Pop," I assured him, leaning down, my large hand covering his frail one. "Malibu is moving. Atlanta is clean. The name is gold. I got it now, Pop."
He shifted his gaze to Donny, who was standing right behind me, her hand on my shoulder. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Good," he breathed. "I love y'all."
That was it. No grand speech, no final list of enemies. He just closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath that seemed to carry the weight of forty years of war with it. The heart monitor flatlined into a steady, piercing drone until the nurse stepped forward to silence it.
The king was dead, and for the first time in my life, the crown felt heavy enough to break my neck.
? ? ?
The week that followed was a blur of black suits and logistics.
The Masters family was deep, and the news of Big Dom's passing brought the heavy hitters out of the woodwork.
Private jets were touching down at the airfield every hour.
My cousins from Detroit, Florida, and New York arrived with a fleet of black Cadillacs.
The New York associates came in quiet and sharp, and Nia and Tasha's husbands were busy coordinating the influx of flowers that almost swallowed the whole estate.
The funeral was the biggest event the city had seen in decades.
We didn't do it at a church; we did it on the estate grounds, under a massive black canopy that shielded the elite from the afternoon sun.
I stood at the head of the casket, my black-on-black suit tailored to perfection, my beard groomed sharp, and my eyes hidden behind dark shades.
Donny stood beside a pillar of strength in a black lace veil.
She had been the one coordinating the family, making sure my mother ate, and keeping the peace between the bickering cousins.
She was a natural-born matriarch and seeing her handle the chaos made me realize just how right my father had been about her.
When it was over, and the final "M" crested shovel of dirt had been placed, the house felt cavernous. The family started to clear out, heading back to their respective cities, leaving the three of us—me, Donny, and Elena—in the quiet of the study.
"He died proud of you, Dominic," Elena stated, kissing my forehead before retiring to her room. "Never forget that."
? ? ?
Later that night, the house was finally still.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed in our suite, my head in my hands.
The adrenaline was gone, leaving nothing but a hollow ache.
I felt the bed shift as Donny sat down beside me.
She didn't say anything at first; she just rubbed the back of my neck, her touch the only thing keeping me grounded.
"He's at peace, Dom," she murmured.
"I know," I stated, my voice cracked. "It's just… it's all on me now. No more safety net. He was hard as a mothafucka on me, but I'm gonna miss that man."
Donny moved, standing up and walking around to face me. She looked pale, her eyes wide and glowing with a strange intensity. She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a small, white stick. She didn't say a word; she just handed it to me.
I looked down at it: two pink lines, bold.
The air left my lungs. I looked from the test up to Donny, who was biting her lip, a single tear tracking down her cheek.
"I've been feeling off all week," she whispered. "I thought it was just the stress of the funeral, but I took the test an hour ago. Dominic… your legacy isn't over, baby."
I stood up, my large hands shaking as I reached for her.
I pulled her into my chest, burying my face in her neck, the smell of her jasmine perfume mixing with the scent of the rain outside.
A year ago, I was a menace looking for a reason to put a nigga in the dirt.
I was angry, controlling, and guarded. Tonight, I was a father and a husband.
"A Masters," I breathed, my voice thick with emotion.
"A Masters," she confirmed, laughing through her tears.
I picked her up, holding her as if she were the most fragile thing in the universe.
My father had gone out with the sunset, but he'd left the door open for the sunrise.
The king was gone, but a prince was on his way.
I looked out the window at the dark Georgia woods, feeling a new kind of power surge through me.
I had something to protect now that was bigger than the streets, bigger than the money, and bigger than the name.
"Malibu is gonna be perfect for a nursery," I murmured, kissing her deeply. "We're starting over, baby—for real this time.