Chapter 4 - The Fiancée’s Web
The trap had snapped shut—just not the one Dominic had anticipated.
As the three armed men fanned out across the luxury suite, their assault rifles trained squarely on Dominic’s chest, Nathan took a slow step backward, smoothing the cuffs of his white shirt. The mask of brotherhood was entirely gone, replaced by the chilling confidence of a man who believed he held all the winning cards.
“Put the piece down, Dom,” Nathan said, gesturing lazily toward the Sig Sauer in Dominic’s hand. “Don't make this messy in front of the wallpaper.”
Dominic didn't lower his weapon. His dark eyes flicked from Nathan to the three gunmen, calculating angles, reaction times, and the thickness of the mahogany headboard behind him.
“You think a three-man hit squad makes you king of New York, Nathan?” Dominic’s voice was smooth, completely devoid of fear. “You bring these amateurs into my house and think you walk out alive?”
“They aren't amateurs, Dom. They’re the clean-up crew,” a cool, melodic voice drifted from the adjoining dressing room.
The frosted glass door swung open, and Claire Bennett stepped out.
She was dressed in a tailored charcoal pantsuit, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe, immaculate bun. The trembling, fragile socialite who supposedly cried over wine selections and wedding invitations was completely gone. In her place stood a cold, calculating corporate predator. In her right hand, she held a silenced Walther PPK, the barrel pointed casually toward the floor.
“Hello, darling,” Claire said, a mocking smile touching her lips. “I must admit, you ruined my morning schedule. I planned to be airborne over the Atlantic before you even crossed the state line from New Jersey.”
Dominic looked at her with pure, unadulterated disgust. “You played the grieving fiancée for six months.”
“Oh, it wasn't acting, Dominic,” Claire laughed softly, walking over to stand beside Nathan. She rested a hand on Nathan’s arm with easy familiarity. “The diamonds were real, the gown was couture, and the wedding planner was a nightmare. But business is business. And you were becoming a liability.”
“A liability?” Dominic asked, keeping his weapon locked on Nathan’s chest while his peripheral vision tracked the movements of the gunmen.
“You wanted to legitimize the syndicate,” Nathan chimed in, taking over the explanation with evident satisfaction. “Real estate investments, clean shipping contracts, philanthropic foundations in Manhattan. You were turning a high-stakes mafia empire into a boring hedge fund. The capos in Brooklyn weren't happy, Dom. And Claire and I... well, we realized we could run the operation much more efficiently without your moral compass getting in the way.”
“And Mia?” Dominic’s voice dropped an octave, the temperature in the room plunging. “What did she do? Did she want to run a hedge fund too?”
Claire’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of genuine venom.
“That little cleaning girl was too observant,” Claire snapped, stepping forward. “Three nights ago, she walked into the study while I was downloading the encrypted ledger from your private safe. She threatened to tell you. So, we improvised. Tossed her in the wine cellar, locked the door, and let her think about her station in life.”
“You left a four-year-old child crying in the hallway for three days while her mother starved two floors below,” Dominic said, every word dripping with lethal ice. “You called that improvising?”
“Collateral damage,” Nathan said dismissively. “Now, drop the gun, Dom. Be smart for once in your life. Kneel down, sign the asset transfer papers sitting on that desk, and maybe—just maybe—we’ll let you share a prison cell in upstate New York with your precious maid.”
Dominic looked at the papers on the mahogany desk. He looked at Nathan. He looked at Claire.
Then, a slow, terrifying smile spread across his face.
“Nathan,” Dominic whispered.
“What?”
“Did you really think I flew back from Atlantic City alone?”
Before Nathan could process the question, the heavy, reinforced oak door behind the three gunmen splintered into a million pieces.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
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Flashbang grenades detonated in the hallway, flooding the luxury suite with blinding white light and a deafening shockwave that rattled the windows in their frames.
The three enforcers dropped their weapons, grabbing their ears and screaming as Marcus and Daniel surged through the smoke, dressed in full tactical gear, their submachine guns raised.
