Chapter 8 - Blood on the Marble
The aftermath was swift and absolute.
By sunset, Grant Calder’s primary warehouses on the Port Ash waterfront were burning to the waterline.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of Dominic’s third-floor study, watching the distant orange glow reflecting off the dark surface of the river.
The door opened behind me.
Dominic walked in, wearing a fresh black shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His knuckles were bruised and stained with dried blood—not his own.
“Is it over?” I asked, without turning around.
“Calder caught a flight to South America via a private airstrip in Delaware about twenty minutes before my men reached his estate,” Dominic said, walking up behind me and resting his hands on my hips, pulling me back against his chest. “He’s running with empty pockets and a price on his head. He won't be back.”
“And the men who attacked the gate?”
“Dealt with.” His voice was flat, carrying the cold, final weight of a king who had successfully defended his crown.
I turned around in his arms, looking up into his face. The heavy black diamond of the Vale ring caught the firelight from the hearth.
“You’re a terrifying man, Dominic Vale,” I whispered.
“I told you that on day one.”
“You never told me what happens now.”
He reached out, his thumb gently tracing the line of my jaw, moving down to brush against the collarbone where my old scar rested.
“Now, you stop running,” he said. “Now, the girl from Second Street stays right here, where she belongs.”
“And if I want to open a diner?” I teased, a small, genuine smile breaking through the tension. “Somewhere with terrible coffee and pie that tastes like cardboard?”
May you like
Dominic’s dark eyes softened, a rare, breathtaking warmth breaking through the ice.
“I’ll buy the diner,” he murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed mine. “I’ll hire the worst cook in New Jersey. And I’ll sit in the corner booth every single day just to watch you tell customers they’re sitting in the wrong place.”
