Chapter 8 - My Queen
The abandoned Domino Sugar refinery loomed against the midnight sky like a skeletal cathedral of rust, corrugated iron, and broken glass.
Inside the cavernous, damp central chamber, water dripped rhythmically from overhead pipes, echoing through the empty space.
Beatrice regained consciousness with a sharp, blinding pain at the back of her head. Her wrists were bound tightly behind her with heavy plastic zip-ties, chafing against her skin. She was tied to a rusted metal chair.
A few feet away, little Leo was sitting on a wooden crate, crying softly, clutching his stuffed rabbit while two armed Moretti thugs stood guard over him.
At the center of the room, standing beside a rusted support pillar, was Salvatore Moretti—an aging, scarred syndicate boss with cold, dead eyes and a sneer twisting his mouth.
“Well, well,” Salvatore laughed, pacing toward Beatrice with a slow, mocking stride. “The famous Wolf of Brooklyn reduced to a whimpering dog because of a little nanny and a brat.”
Beatrice glared up at him, her dark eyes flashing with unyielding fury, blood trickling from a small cut on her forehead. “You’re a coward, Salvatore. Dragging a child into a gang war doesn't make you powerful. It just makes you pathetic.”
Salvatore’s face darkened with anger. He raised his hand back to strike her across the face—
CRASH.
The massive iron double doors at the far end of the refinery blew inward in an explosion of splintered wood and flying iron bolts.
Smoke billowed into the chamber.
Through the haze stepped Dominic Russo.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing corded muscles and hands stained with the blood of the guards outside. Behind him, dozens of armed enforcers flooded the refinery, taking up positions with terrifying, silent efficiency.
“Salvatore,” Dominic’s voice boomed across the cavernous room, cutting through the dripping water like a razor.
Salvatore spun around, dropping his hand from Beatrice, and grabbed a terrified-looking Leo, pulling a silver pistol from his belt and pressing the barrel against the five-year-old’s temple.
“Stay back, Russo!” Salvatore shrieked, panic cracking his voice. “One step closer and the kid gets a bullet!”
Beatrice let out a strangled cry of terror. “Dominic, don't move! Save Leo!”
Dominic stopped walking. He stared at the gun pressed against his son’s head.
For a second, the entire world stood still.
Then, Dominic lifted his right hand. He didn't pull his gun. He snapped his fingers once.
From the shadows of the catwalk above, a red laser dot flickered onto the center of Salvatore Moretti’s forehead. Then another. Then five more.
“You have three seconds to drop the gun, Salvatore,” Dominic said softly, stepping forward with the cold, unhurried stride of an executioner. “Not because you have leverage. But because I want to kill you with my bare hands.”
Salvatore’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. He looked at the laser dots, realized his men had already been neutralized or fled, and tried to raise his weapon—
Crack. Crack.
Two silenced gunshots echoed from the upper rafters.
Salvatore Moretti collapsed backward into the dust, lifeless before he hit the ground.
Leo started screaming, terrified by the blood.
Dominic broke into a run. He sprinted across the concrete floor, dropping to his knees beside his son, sweeping the little boy up into his arms and crushing him against his chest.
“I’ve got you, Leo. You’re safe. Papa’s here,” Dominic murmured, pressing fierce kisses to the top of his son’s head before handing the trembling boy gently to Marcus, who had rushed up behind him.
Then, Dominic turned around.
He walked over to the metal chair where Beatrice sat, her heart still hammering against her ribs, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
With a single, effortless pull, Dominic snapped the plastic zip-ties binding her wrists, casting them aside into the dust.
Before she could speak, before she could process the adrenaline crashing through her veins, Dominic cupped her face with both large, warm hands and pressed his lips hard against hers in a fierce, possessive, desperate kiss that tasted of salvation and war.
Beatrice gasped, throwing her arms around his neck, gripping him as if she would never let go.
When Dominic finally pulled back, his slate-gray eyes burned with an intensity that could melt steel. He scooped her up effortlessly into his arms, carrying her out of the dark refinery into the bright glare of the morning sun outside, where police sirens, news vans, and flashing cameras were already beginning to gather beyond the police lines.
A high-profile reporter from the New York Tribune, recognizing the infamous billionaire emerging from the syndicate stronghold with a curvy, tear-streaked woman in his arms, shouted over the barricades:
“Mr. Russo! Who is she? Is she part of the staff? Is this a hostage situation?”
Dominic stopped in the middle of the gravel drive, holding Beatrice tightly against his chest, shielding her face from the flashing lights.
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He looked directly into the camera lens, his voice ringing out across the waterfront with absolute, unarguable finality, echoing across every television screen in New York:
“She is not the help. She is my queen.”
