Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the First Wife
The corridors of the Vale estate were draped in shadows, the morning light struggling to pierce the tall, leaded glass windows that overlooked the frozen Hudson River.
Seventeen years ago, those same windows had framed a very different kind of morning.
Dominic’s first wife, Elena, had died in a fiery car crash just three miles down Route 9—an accident the police ruled as brake failure, but one that Dominic had spent years suspecting was something far more sinister. Back then, Nathan Cross had been the one to stand beside him at the gravesite, holding an umbrella over his head, whispering words of loyalty and brotherhood.
“We’re all we have left, Dom,” Nathan had said then. “I’ve got your back. Always.”
Now, walking down the mahogany-paneled hallway toward the east wing, Dominic realized with a chilling clarity that the ghosts of the past were not resting. They were repeating themselves.
“You’re letting paranoia cloud your judgment, Dom,” Nathan said, matching him stride for stride. “Ever since Elena died, you’ve never fully trusted anyone. Not even me. After seventeen years of building this empire together, you’re ready to throw it all away because a terrified maid and a four-year-old child pointed fingers?”
Dominic stopped in front of a heavy, double-paneled mahogany door at the end of the east wing—the private quarters designated for Claire Bennett.
He didn't knock.
He raised his right foot and kicked the center of the door just below the brass handle.
CRACK.
The reinforced oak frame splintered, the deadbolt tearing out of the plaster with a deafening screech. The door swung wide open, revealing a suite decorated in sterile whites and golds, bathed in the pale morning light.
It was entirely empty.
On the king-sized bed, an open Louis Vuitton suitcase lay surrounded by scattered designer clothes, expensive jewelry cases, and a thick stack of passports and bearer bonds. A half-packed vanity case sat open on the marble dresser, next to a plane ticket to Zurich dated for later that afternoon.
Nathan stopped in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the ransacked room.
“Well,” Nathan said, his voice entirely devoid of panic. “It appears she was planning a trip. But people in our line of work keep emergency bags packed all the time, Dom. You know that. She probably panicked when she saw you arrive and assumed—"
“She didn't panic,” Dominic said, walking slowly into the room. He picked up the airline ticket from the dresser. The name on it wasn't Claire Bennett. It was an alias: Elena Vance.
Nathan froze.
“Where did you get that?” Nathan asked, his voice dropping its smooth, controlled facade.
Dominic turned around, holding the ticket in his hand. His dark eyes burned with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly airless.
“Claire didn't book this flight,” Dominic said quietly. “You did, Nathan. The corporate account number at the bottom is the same shell corporation you used to funnel funds out of the Brooklyn docks three years ago.”
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
Nathan didn't deny it. He didn't stutter. He slowly lowered his hands, his shoulders dropping as the posture of a loyal, grieving brother melted away entirely, replaced by something cold, calculating, and ruthless.
“You always were too smart for your own good, Dom,” Nathan whispered, a thin, bitter smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I told Claire we should have cleared the estate out a week ago. But she wanted to play games with the maid. She wanted to see how long the little bitch could survive in the dark.”
Dominic didn't yell. He didn't draw his gun.
“Why?”
The single word carried the weight of seventeen years of blood, sweat, and shared survival.
Nathan let out a short, dry laugh, stepping fully into the bedroom.
“Why? Because you’ve grown soft, Dominic,” Nathan spat, his voice hardening with years of suppressed resentment. “You spend your time playing the benevolent patriarch of the Hudson Valley, adopting maids, worrying about school districts, while the five families in New York laugh behind your back. You forgot what built this empire. Blood. Fire. Fear.”
“And Elena?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping to a lethal hum. “Did she grow soft too?”
Nathan’s smile faded. A dark, dangerous glint appeared in his eyes.
“Elena figured out that the books didn't match,” Nathan said, showing no remorse whatsoever. “She was going to go to federal prosecutors with the offshore accounts. She thought she could save your soul, Dom. So I cut her brakes. And you cried on my shoulder for six months, thanking me for being your rock.”
Dominic’s hand didn't shake as he raised the Sig Sauer P226, leveling the barrel squarely at the center of Nathan’s chest.
“You should have checked the brakes on your own exit, Nathan,” Dominic said softly.
Before Nathan could lunge, the heavy oak door behind him slammed open, and three armed men in black tactical vests rushed into the room, their assault rifles raised.
May you like
But they weren't Dominic’s guards.
They were Nathan’s enforcers.
