Chapter 2 - The Predator’s Interest
Marcus froze, his mouth half-open, a wet cough rattling in his chest. "Mr. Russo, look, there's been a misunderstanding. The girl—she dropped her bag, I was just—"
Dominic took two slow, measured strides forward. The water running down his expensive wool coat didn't seem to bother him at all; he looked like a statue carved out of granite and winter storm. With a speed that defied the heavy, sluggish atmosphere of the alley, Dominic’s right hand shot out, grabbing Marcus by the expensive lapel of his jacket and slamming him hard against the opposite brick wall with a sickening thud that echoed down the concrete canyon.
Marcus gasped, his feet leaving the ground for a split second as Dominic hoisted him up effortlessly, one-handed.
"You touch what belongs to me," Dominic murmured, his voice dropping to a low, velvet hum that was infinitely more terrifying than a shout, "and you forfeit the right to use those hands."
"I swear to God, I didn't—please, Mr. Russo, please—" Marcus choked out, his eyes wide with white-hot panic as he clawed helplessly at Dominic’s sleeve.
Chloe pressed herself harder against the wall behind them, her chest heaving, her fingers dug into the gritty brick. Belongs to me? The phrase echoed in her mind, strange and heavy. She was his assistant. She organized his calendar, corrected his typos on zoning proposals, and brought him black coffee without sugar at precisely 8:30 every single morning. She was a ghost in his office, a tool of administrative efficiency. But right now, standing in the freezing rain while a mafia boss pinned a man to a wall on her behalf, she felt less like an employee and more like a fuse that had just blown the entire electrical grid.
Dominic held Marcus suspended for another three agonizing seconds, his dark eyes narrowing as he measured the exact weight of the man's terror. Then, with a disgusted twist of his wrist, he shoved Marcus backward. The man stumbled, tripped over his own expensive loafers, and hit the wet asphalt hard, scrambling backward through the dirty puddle on his hands and knees.
"Get out of my sight," Dominic said quietly. "If I ever see your face in this city again, you won't have to worry about the rain."
Marcus didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, slipping twice in the mud before breaking into a desperate, stumbling sprint toward the main street, disappearing into the dark curtain of the storm.
The alley went dead silent again, save for the rhythmic, heavy pounding of the rain hitting the metal awnings above.
Dominic stood alone in the center of the open space for a moment, letting out a slow, measured breath through his nose. Then, he turned his head slowly. His dark, impenetrable eyes found Chloe once more.
He didn't speak immediately. He walked toward her, each step deliberate, until he was standing just inches away. Up close, the sheer physical presence of him was overwhelming. He radiated dry warmth despite the downpour, smelling faintly of expensive cedarwood, rain, and dark espresso.
He reached up. Chloe flinched instinctively, squeezing her eyes shut, bracing for a reprimand, a scolding, or some cold corporate dismissal for her unprofessional behavior.
Instead, she felt the heavy, dry weight of wool settling over her shoulders. Dominic had shrugged off his own expensive designer coat and draped it carefully around her shivering frame. It was enormous on her, swallowing her small frame completely, and it was still radiating his body heat.
"Open your eyes, Chloe," he said softly.
She opened them. His face was only inches from hers. The bitter-chocolate eyes were no longer unreadable; they were burning with a fierce, suppressed intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
"Mr. Russo... I'm sorry," she whispered, her teeth chattering so hard she could barely form the syllables. "I didn't mean to... my phone died, I hit the wrong chat, I was trying to text Jessica, it was an accident—"
"Quiet, Chloe."
He reached out, his warm thumb gently brushing a stray, wet lock of dark hair away from her damp forehead. His skin felt burning hot against her freezing cheek.
"It wasn't an accident," Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave, steady and absolute. "You called. I came. That is how this works."
May you like
Before she could process the impossible implications of those words, Dominic turned slightly, opening the rear door of the Maybach. The interior was a sanctuary of soft leather, amber reading lights, and climate-controlled warmth.
"Get in," he commanded, though his tone left no room for argument. "We are going home."
