Chapter 3 - THE WATCH ON THE CRATE
Dominic caught me before I hit the floor.
His grip on my arms was iron-strong, pulling me back to my feet.
“Grace. Look at me.”
I couldn’t breathe. The room spun.
“Tommy,” I gasped. “Oh god, Tommy.”
“Look at me.”
Dominic’s voice was a whip, sharp and commanding. I forced my eyes up to his.
“Michael is on his way there now,” Dominic said, his words slow and deliberate. “We don’t know if your brother was in that sector. We don’t know anything yet.”
“She killed him. She missed her check-in time and she killed him.”
“It’s 10:37, Grace. She had until eleven.”
That stopped my panic. Just for a second.
Dominic was right. Elena was downstairs, sipping champagne, perfectly confident that she still had twenty-three minutes.
“Then why did the warehouse explode?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “Because Elena isn’t working alone.”
He let go of my arms and pulled a black leather coat from the closet. He threw it on, hiding his formal dinner jacket.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“No. I’m coming with you.”
“Grace, you are a target now. If whoever is helping Elena finds out you told me the truth—”
“He’s my brother!” I stepped in front of the door, blocking his exit.
I was a maid. He was a Caruso.
I had spent three years blending into the wallpaper, keeping my head down, scrubbing his floors, and avoiding his eyes.
But I wasn’t moving now.
Dominic stared at me. He saw the fierce, desperate protectiveness in my posture.
Something in his expression softened. Just a fraction.
“Put your coat on,” he said softly.
We took the back stairs. The servant’s staircase.
We slipped out through the kitchen courtyard, avoiding the dining room completely. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded behind us.
Dominic’s black SUV was idling in the driveway. Michael Grant was behind the wheel.
We climbed in.
“South sector is burning,” Michael said, slamming the car into gear. “Fire crews are en route. Our men are pulling out the injured.”
“Tommy Miller,” Dominic said. “Find out if he checked in tonight.”
Michael made a call as we sped through the dark Boston streets.
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying to a God I hadn’t spoken to in years.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up to the shipyard.
Smoke billowed into the night sky. Orange flames licked the sides of a massive corrugated steel building. Sirens wailed in the distance.
Dominic jumped out before the car even stopped. I followed right behind him.
Men were running, shouting orders, coughing against the thick smoke.
“Mr. Caruso!” A foreman ran up, his face covered in soot. “It was Sector 4. A deliberate charge. We found the detonator wire.”
“Casualties?” Dominic asked, his voice dead calm.
“Two dead. Four injured. Medics are handling it.”
“Was Tommy Miller in Sector 4?” I screamed, pushing past Dominic.
The foreman looked at me, then at Dominic.
“Miller?” The foreman checked a clipboard. “No. Miller was reassigned tonight.”
Relief hit me so hard I stumbled.
“Reassigned where?” Dominic asked.
“Sector 9. The overflow lockup.”
Dominic’s face turned to stone.
“Show me,” he demanded.
We ran past the burning building, toward the quiet, dark edge of the shipyard. Sector 9 was an old, abandoned warehouse.
The heavy iron door was slightly ajar.
Dominic pulled his gun.
He kicked the door open.
Inside, it was pitch black. The smell of copper and salt water filled the air.
Michael clicked on a heavy tactical flashlight.
The beam swept the empty space.
No crates. No equipment.
Just a single wooden chair in the center of the room.
And sitting on the floor beside the chair was Tommy’s silver pocket watch.
I ran to it. I fell to my knees, scooping the cold metal into my hands.
“He was here,” I cried.
Dominic walked slowly toward the chair. He looked at the ground.
“Michael,” Dominic said quietly.
Michael pointed the flashlight at the floor.
A thick, fresh trail of blood led from the chair, dragging toward the back exit.
But that wasn’t what made Dominic freeze.
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Lying in the center of the blood trail was a small, brightly colored object.
A child’s blue sneaker.
