THE SCISSORS IN THE STUDY

Claire’s breath hitched in her throat. The dark, hollow eye of the revolver stared back at her. She had spent her entire life trying to remain invisible, trying to keep her mother safe. Now, she was standing in the crosshairs of a mob traitor.

“Put the gun down, Victor,” Dominic said.

His voice didn't rise. It didn't waver. It was the terrifying, absolute calm of a man who dealt in violence every single day.

“Slide the ticket and the photo across the desk,” Victor demanded, his finger whitening on the trigger. “Now, Dominic. She’s just a maid. You don't care if she dies.”

Dominic didn't look at the gun. He looked at Claire.

“Are you alright, Claire?” he asked softly.

“I—I think so,” she whispered, her knees trembling.

“Look at me,” Dominic commanded gently. “Don't look at him.”

She forced her eyes to meet Dominic’s. They were dark, solid, and entirely fearless. For the first time in her life, Claire felt a strange, inexplicable sense of safety, even with a gun pointed at her heart.

“Slide it!” Victor screamed.

Dominic didn't break eye contact with Claire. Slowly, his hand moved over the desk. He placed his palm flat over the faded baggage claim ticket, memorizing the nine-digit claim number instantly. Then, he pushed the ticket and the photograph across the polished mahogany.

Victor snatched them with his free hand, stuffing them into his coat pocket.

“You’re a smart boy, Dominic,” Victor sneered, backing toward the heavy oak doors. “You tell your grandfather I’ve retired. You don't look for me. You don't look for the locker at Union Station. If I see a single one of your men following me, this girl’s mother gets a visit tonight.”

Dominic’s expression turned to stone. “If you touch Margaret Dawson, I will burn your world to ashes.”

“I already touched her once,” Victor smiled cruelly. “Her bones broke like twigs.”

Victor reached behind him, turning the brass doorknob.

He threw the doors open to run.

And slammed chest-first into a wall of solid muscle.

Standing in the hallway were four of Dominic’s personal enforcers. Dominic hadn't pressed a panic button. He hadn't made a sound. But his men knew that if the boss stepped into the study with a traitor and locked the doors, they waited outside.

Before Victor could raise the gun, the largest enforcer grabbed his wrist and twisted violently. The bone snapped with a sickening crack.

Victor screamed, dropping the revolver. The men wrestled him to the floor, pinning him instantly.

Dominic walked out of the study, looking down at the gasping, whimpering man who had advised his family for twenty years.

He reached into Victor’s pocket and retrieved the ticket and the photograph.

“Take him to the basement,” Dominic ordered his men. “He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”

As they dragged Victor away, Dominic turned back to the study.

Claire was clutching the edge of the desk, her knuckles white, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

Dominic walked over, his massive frame blocking out the chaos of the hallway. He gently reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was surprisingly warm.

“He’s gone,” Dominic said quietly. “You’re safe.”

Claire looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes. Not from fear, but from a lifetime of suppressed anger. “He broke her hand. He ruined her life over a photograph.”

“He did,” Dominic agreed, his jaw tight. “And I promise you, he will pay for it.”

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany grandfather clock in the corner chimed, signaling eight o'clock.

Claire gasped, her eyes widening in sheer panic.

“My mother,” Claire said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

Dominic frowned. “Victor is in my basement. He can't hurt her.”

“No, you don't understand,” Claire said, grabbing her coat from the chair. “Victor didn't come here alone tonight. He brought his personal driver. I saw him smoking by the service gate when I took the trash out.”

Dominic’s blood ran cold.