Eli squinted at Dominic. “You don’t look like a spy. You look like a hitman from the movies.”
Carlo choked on a cough. Marin froze in absolute horror.
Dominic did not get angry. For the first time in years, a genuine, albeit faint, smile touched his lips.
“I am a businessman, Eli,” Dominic said, stepping forward. “And right now, my business is making sure you and your mother have a safe place to sleep tonight.”
“We’re staying here?” Eli asked, his eyes going wide. “In the castle where nobody laughs?”
“It’s alright, Marin,” Dominic said, his eyes crinkling slightly. He looked down at the boy. “We’re staying here. And perhaps, we can work on the laughing.”
The War Council
The following morning, the mansion was a fortress on high alert.
The breaking of the engagement was not a quiet affair. The Morrow family had reacted exactly as expected. They withdrew their security from the shared harbor routes, leaving Dominic’s shipments vulnerable. Whispers of war echoed through the Rhode Island underworld.
Dominic convened his capos in the massive library. The air was thick with cigar smoke and tension.
“Vito Morrow is furious,” Silvio, Dominic’s underboss, reported grimly. “He says you insulted his daughter and his honor. The Russians are already smelling blood.”
“We fortify our positions,” Dominic commanded. “Double the guard at the warehouses. Any Morrow men crossing our lines are to be considered hostile.”
“Boss, with all due respect,” another capo interjected nervously. “Starting a war over a broken engagement… was she really that bad?”
Dominic’s head snapped up. His dark eyes fixed on the man, pinning him with a stare so lethal the capo physically recoiled.
“She threatened a child under my protection,” Dominic stated, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure violence. “And she planned to dispose of my mother. If any of you question my judgment on this again, you can walk out that door and join the Morrows.”
Silence fell over the room. No one questioned him again.
Upstairs, in the east wing, a different kind of quiet settled over Isabella’s room. Marin sat beside the window, watching the rain lash against the glass. Eli was coloring quietly on the floor, supervised by one of the younger guards who seemed entirely charmed by the boy.
Isabella had written a new message on her board. Marin read it and offered a tired smile. “I didn’t have much of a choice, Isabella. Vivien knows where my sister is buried. She knows everything about me. I can’t run.”
Isabella’s frail hand moved over the board. The words came slowly: Stay. Safe here.
Marin looked at the words. She looked out the window at the heavy iron gates of the mansion. It was true that she was trapped by the circumstances, but for the first time in her life, she wasn’t fighting alone. The most dangerous man in New England had burned an alliance to the ground to keep her and her son safe.
Within a week, three of Dominic’s warehouses were burned. The Morrows were hitting his supply lines, trying to bleed him out financially before moving on the mansion itself.
Dominic was rarely seen. He was a ghost moving through his own home, orchestrating counter-attacks and solidifying his alliances with the smaller families who hated the Morrows.
Marin fell into a strange routine. She cared for Isabella during the day, taught Eli his schoolwork since he couldn’t return to St. Anne’s, and listened for the heavy footsteps in the hallway that signaled Dominic’s return.
Three in the Morning
One night, she found him in the kitchen at 3:00 AM.
He was sitting at the stainless steel island, a glass of untouched scotch in front of him. His suit jacket was discarded, his tie loose. He looked exhausted.
Marin hesitated in the doorway, wearing a worn fleece robe over her pajamas.
“You should be sleeping,” Dominic said without turning around.
“So should you,” Marin replied softly, stepping into the kitchen. She walked to the stove and began boiling water. “Coffee won’t help you sleep. But tea might.”
Dominic watched her move. She didn’t flutter around him anxiously. She moved with purpose, comfortable in a space that intimidated most people.
“They hit another dock tonight,” Dominic murmured, his voice rough. “Lost three men.”
Marin stopped pouring the water. She turned to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault,” he said, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. “I should have seen Vivien’s ambition earlier. I should have known better than to bring a viper into my mother’s house.”
“You brought her in to make peace,” Marin countered gently, setting a steaming mug of chamomile tea in front of him. “You wanted to stop the fighting. That isn’t a weakness, Dominic.”
He looked up at her. He looked at the soft curve of her jaw, the dark curls escaping her messy bun, the deep, empathetic brown eyes that saw right through his terrifying facade.
“You are very dangerous, Marin Hayes,” Dominic whispered.
Marin blinked, confused. “Me? I’m a caregiver.”
“You make me want things I cannot afford to want,” he elaborated, his voice dropping into a register that made her breath hitch. “You make me want to lay down my weapons and just… rest.”
He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing against the back of her hand resting on the counter. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core.
Before she could respond, the kitchen door swung open violently.
Carlo stood there, breathing heavily, his weapon drawn.
“Boss,” Carlo gasped. “Perimeter breach. They hit the front gates with a truck. They’re inside the compound.”
The Night the Gates Held
Dominic was on his feet before Carlo finished the sentence. The exhaustion vanished from his face like a mask removed, replaced by the cold precision that had kept him alive for twenty years.
“How many?” he asked.
“Two vehicles. Maybe eight men. Morrow colors,” Carlo reported. “They rammed the east gate. Silvio’s team is engaging at the courtyard.”
Dominic turned to Marin. “Take Eli to your mother’s room. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone but me or Carlo.”
Marin didn’t argue. She ran.
She found Eli half-asleep on the couch in the sitting room, scooped him up despite his nine-year-old protest, and carried him down the corridor to Isabella’s bedroom. The old woman was already awake, sitting upright in the dark, her writing board on her lap. She had heard the distant crash. Her eyes were clear and furious.
Marin locked the door and pushed the heavy dresser against it. Then she sat on the floor with Eli’s head in her lap, one hand on Isabella’s trembling shoulder, and listened.
Gunfire cracked through the night, sharp and uneven. Shouting echoed off the stone walls. Somewhere below, glass shattered.