Chapter 7 - The Wolf at the Iron Gates
Two weeks passed like lightning trapped in a bottle.
Under Dominic’s protection, my shoulder healed into a thick, angry knot of pink scar tissue. I spent my afternoons with Sophie in the conservatory, teaching her how to press autumn leaves between heavy dictionary pages, and my evenings learning the complex, terrifying geography of the criminal underworld from Dominic across the library desk.
I was no longer just the waitress who survived a shootout.
To the men who came and went through the estate’s secure back entrance—capos, lieutenants, accountants with suitcases full of cash—I was la signora, Dominic’s shadow, the woman who wore the black diamond of the Vale family.
They bowed their heads when I passed. They spoke in hushed tones.
And then, Grant Calder made his final move.
It didn't come in the form of an assassin in the dead of night. It came as a delivery truck crashing through the outer security gates of the estate at high noon.
I was in the kitchen with Mrs. Geller helping bake sugar cookies for Sophie when the entire house shuddered.
A deafening CRASH echoed from the front courtyard, followed by the screech of twisted iron and the sudden, wailing shriek of the estate’s master alarm system.
“Get Sophie to the panic room!” Mrs. Geller hissed, dropping a bag of flour onto the tile as she grabbed a heavy brass fireplace poker from the corner.
“No,” I said, my blood turning to ice. “Dominic’s in the courtyard.”
I sprinted down the long hallway toward the front entrance, my heart hammering against my ribs. The massive oak double doors leading to the driveway stood blown open. Smoke drifted across the marble foyer, smelling of burning rubber, gasoline, and burnt sugar.
Stepping out onto the front steps, the scene outside looked like a war zone.
A delivery truck had plowed straight through the wrought-iron security gates, coming to a smoking halt against the stone fountain. From the back of the truck, half a dozen men in tactical gear poured out, automatic weapons raised.
And in the center of the courtyard, standing by a black Lincoln Navigator, was Dominic.
He had two men pinned against the hood of the car, his Sig Sauer barking twice in rapid succession before he tossed one of them aside like a rag doll. But there were too many. Three more gunmen converged on him from the side of the truck, rifles raised.
“DOMINIC!” I screamed.
Without thinking, I grabbed the P229 from the small tactical holster Dominic had insisted I wear under my cardigan, raised it with both hands, and fired across the courtyard.
The bullet shattered the windshield of the delivery truck, spraying glass over the gunmen.
Dominic spun around, his eyes locking onto me standing on the steps, fury and terror warring across his face.
“GET INSIDE, EMMA!” he roared.
“Not a chance!” I yelled back, firing a second round that dropped the nearest gunman to his knees.
The courtyard erupted into chaos. Dominic’s personal security detail—hidden in the perimeter trees—opened fire from the flanks, catching Calder’s men in a devastating crossfire. Within thirty seconds, the fight was over.
Smoke cleared. Silence returned, broken only by the hiss of a punctured radiator.
Dominic walked across the shattered stone of the courtyard, his boots crunching over glass, his face pale beneath his dark hair. He grabbed me by the shoulders the second he reached the steps, his hands shaking so violently I could feel it through my clothes.
“Are you insane?” he breathed, his voice rough and broken. “I told you to stay inside!”
“And let them kill you?” I snapped, dropping the empty magazine of my pistol into my palm. “We’re a team, Dominic. You forgot to mention that part in the lease.”
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For a long second, he stared at me—really stared at me—as if he were seeing a miracle he didn't deserve.
Then he pulled me against his chest so hard my ribs ached, burying his face in my neck while the smoke from the ruined gates drifted away over the Hudson.
