Chapter 4 - The Blood Supper
Three days later, the illusion of peace was shattered by a single phone call.
Uncle Vincent had called an emergency family dinner at the downtown Castellano townhouse—a traditional gathering designed to test the new alliance and remind Dominic of who truly held the purse strings of the old guard.
Dominic wanted to decline. He wanted to lock the estate gates and let the old men rot in their own cigar smoke. But Clara insisted.
“If we don’t go, they’ll think we’re hiding,” Clara said, standing in front of the master suite mirror as she smoothed down a deep emerald silk dress that hugged her curves with breathtaking elegance. “They want to see me break. I won’t give them the satisfaction.”
Dominic stared at her in the mirror, a swell of fierce, burning pride filling his chest. He walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck.
“If anyone speaks a single word out of line,” Dominic murmured against her skin, “I will dismantle their empires before dessert.”
“Let me handle them first,” Clara smiled, turning in his arms to kiss his cheek. “You’re the monster of the underworld, Dominic. Let me be the storm.”
When they arrived at the downtown townhouse, the long mahogany dining table was already crowded with uncles, cousins, and syndicate capos.
At the head of the table sat Uncle Vincent, puffing on a thick Cuban cigar, a smug, venomous smile plastered across his aged face. Standing beside him was Beatrice Rothschild, who had somehow finagled an invitation just to watch the spectacle.
As Dominic and Clara walked into the dining room, the laughter died instantly.
Every eye locked onto Clara. They expected her to cower. They expected her to look like the maid she had been three days ago.
Instead, Clara walked with her head held high, her hand resting comfortably in the crook of Dominic’s arm. She didn't look down. She met every predatory gaze with calm, unblinking dignity.
“Well, well,” Vincent drawled, setting his cigar down in an ashtray and spreading his arms. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence. The Rothschild cleaning lady.”
Snickers rippled down the left side of the table.
Beatrice covered her mouth, laughing aloud. “I hope you didn’t touch the silverware, Clara. We know how hard it is for help to remember their place.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He started to pull out his chair, his hand drifting toward his lapel where his firearm rested—
Before Dominic could move, Clara stepped forward.
She let go of his arm, walked gracefully to Beatrice’s chair, and looked down at the younger woman with a terrifying, serene smile.
“Beatrice,” Clara said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room. “How is your father’s five-million-dollar debt working out? I heard Arthur is currently selling off his vintage cars just to pay the water bill. It must be exhausting... pretending you still have money.”
Beatrice’s face turned the color of a rotten tomato. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
Vincent slammed his hand on the table, rattling the crystal glasses. “Watch your tone, girl! You are speaking to high society—!”
“High society?” Clara interrupted, turning her gaze smoothly toward Vincent. She rested her hands lightly on the back of an empty chair, leaning forward. “Uncle Vincent, let’s talk about high society. Shall we discuss the federal wiretapping investigation currently looking into your offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands? Or would you prefer we talk about how desperate you are to control Dominic because you lost three million dollars at the Macau tables last month?”
The entire dining room went dead silent.
Several capos turned their heads away, trying to hide their shock. Vincent’s face turned an ugly, mottled purple. He half-stood from his chair, pointing a shaking finger at her.
“You—you lying bitch—!”
“Sit down, Uncle,” Dominic finally spoke.
His voice wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was the flat, dead tone of a executioner giving a final order.
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Dominic pulled out Clara’s chair, seating her with absolute reverence, before slowly sitting down beside her. He picked up his wineglass, swirling the dark red liquid, and looked down the table at his uncle with eyes devoid of human warmth.
“Clara is right,” Dominic said smoothly. “And to make sure there is no confusion moving forward: any man at this table who disrespects my wife will spend the rest of the year eating liquid meals through a straw. Dinner is served.”
