Chapter 2 - The Interrogation of Shadows
Something flickered across Cal Brunner’s face near the doorway—a flash of uncomfortable recognition at my words. Dominic caught the micro-expression instantly. His dark gaze drifted away from me and settled squarely on his enforcer.
"Leave," Dominic commanded softly.
Cal blinked, startled. "Boss?"
"Mason too. Out."
Mason’s jaw tightened, a flash of offended pride crossing his rugged features. "You sure you want to be alone with her, Mr. Vale? She’s slippery. She’s the one who took Rourke’s ledger. She’s got a tongue on her—"
"I said out," Dominic repeated, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument, no hesitation, and no second chances.
Mason swallowed whatever threat he had been about to voice. He grabbed Cal by the shoulder, shooting me one last venomous glare before turning toward the heavy iron door. The steel groaned on its rusted hinges, and then slammed shut with a concussive thud that rattled the dust from the ceiling beams.
We were alone.
I pulled my knees up toward my chest, wrapping my arms around my shins to ward off the bone-deep chill. I glared up at the mafia boss, who remained crouched just a few feet away, maintaining a careful, deliberate distance that allowed me to see both of his empty hands.
"You’re either very confident or very stupid," I muttered, my voice hoarse.
"I’ve been accused of both by people who are currently sleeping under six feet of New Jersey sod," Dominic replied evenly.
"Why am I alive?"
"That’s what I came down here to find out."
I let out a short, humorless bark of laughter. "You own this building."
"I own several buildings in this city."
"Your men kidnapped me off the street, dragged me through an alley, and strung me up by my wrists like a side of beef."
"Men who used my resources and my name without authorization," Dominic corrected, his tone chillingly precise.
"Your captain ordered it," I countered, narrowing my eyes. "Rourke runs this district for you."
"So I’m told."
"And somehow none of that is your responsibility?"
Dominic absorbed the accusation like a stone cliff taking the crash of an ocean wave. He didn't flinch, didn't raise his voice, and didn't offer a lazy excuse.
"No," he said simply.
The honest answer completely disarmed me. I had expected denials, lies, or a callous dismissal of my suffering. Accountability was the last thing I anticipated from a man whose portrait belonged on a federal indictment sheet.
He shifted his weight slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "It is my responsibility," he continued quietly. "That doesn’t make me innocent. It makes me accountable."
I studied him in the dim, flickering light of the bulb. Men who ruled through fear and intimidation usually hated precise words; they preferred ambiguity, because ambiguity kept everyone else off balance. But Dominic chose his vocabulary with the care of a surgeon.
"What did they say you stole?" he asked after a long pause.
I looked toward the heavy iron door, my jaw tightening. "A ledger."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
Dominic’s dark eyebrows arched slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. "You admit that remarkably quickly. Most people spend the first hour lying through their teeth."
"I’m too tired to lie well," I whispered, resting my forehead against my knees. "And frankly, I'm too exhausted to care if Rourke wants it back."
"Where is it?"
"Somewhere your friend Rourke will never, ever find it. Even if he tears this entire warehouse down brick by brick."
"He isn't my friend," Dominic corrected sharply, a sudden edge of ice cutting into his tone. "Business associates share territory; they don't share loyalty."
"He calls you brother when he’s drinking at the social club," I snapped back.
"Men call each other many things when money, power, and whiskey are involved." Dominic stood up slowly, stretching his broad frame to its full height, casting a long, imposing shadow over me. He took a measured step closer.
I instinctively shrank back against the damp brick wall, pulling my torn, blood-stained flannel shirt tighter across my chest. The fabric had split along the shoulder seam during the struggle in the alley, exposing the pale, scarred skin underneath.
Dominic stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes dropped from my face down to my left shoulder.
For a fraction of a second, I thought he was looking at the bruises blooming across my collarbone. But then his dark gaze focused entirely on the raised, textured tissue just below my shoulder blade.
I saw the exact millisecond he recognized it.
The blood drained completely from Dominic’s face, leaving him the color of polished marble. The terrifying, unshakeable aura of control that defined him shattered into a million invisible pieces.
He staggered back half a step, gasping for breath as if he had taken a physical blow to the stomach.
"Turn around," he whispered. His voice wasn't a command anymore. It was a plea.
"No."
"Nora—"
"How do you know my name?" I demanded, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Rourke only called me the girl from the docks. He didn't know who I was!"
"Turn around," Dominic repeated, his hands trembling slightly as he clenched them into fists at his sides.
"I said no! You touch me and I swear to God—"
"I won't touch you," he interrupted.
The absolute crack in his voice froze the words in my throat. It was almost invisible, that sudden fracture in his granite exterior, but I heard it loud and clear.
"Please," he murmured.
That single word. From him.
I stared at the most dangerous man in New York, utterly paralyzed. Dominic Vale did not look frightened of federal indictments, rival syndicates, armed hitmen, betrayal, or divine retribution.
May you like
Yet he was terrified right now.
Terrified of a mark on my skin.
