“Are You One of the Bad Guys?”—The Little Girl Asked the Mafia Boss One Question That Changed Everything

Claire didn't sleep.

After Dominic left at ten o'clock, the house fell into a terrifying silence. The kitchen was clean; the scorched cookies had been thrown out; Chloe had been tucked into the massive king-sized bed in the guest suite with Barnaby tucked securely under her chin.

Claire paced the second-floor gallery.

Every fifteen minutes, the beam of an auxiliary spotlight swept across the terrace outside, reflecting off the black waters of the lake. Down in the courtyard, four black SUVs sat idling, their headlights cut, their engines purring like sleeping cats.

Raymond Cole stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, an earpiece humming against his collar.

Claire walked down the marble steps, her bare feet silent on the cold stone. She wore one of Dominic’s white dress shirts over her leggings; it fell halfway down her thighs, smelling of his sandalwood cologne and cedar.

"Mr. Cole," she said.

Raymond turned immediately, his hands dropping to his sides. "Miss Bennett. You should be resting. Dominic expects you to be in the safe room if the alarms trip."

"He went to the docks, didn't he?"

Raymond’s expression didn't change. He had worked for Dominic’s father; he had the dead eyes of a man who had seen too many foundations poured in the middle of the night. "He’s handling a logistical dispute."

"Stop talking to me like I’m a child," Claire snapped, her voice low and sharp. "He went to kill Lucian Torrio."

Raymond was quiet for three beats. Then he pulled a silver pocket watch from his vest, glanced at it, and slid it back. "Torrio called a sit-down at Warehouse 14. He claims he wants to negotiate Elena’s debt and the port access."

"And Dominic went alone?"

"Dominic," Raymond said with a faint, grim smirk, "is never alone. But he entered the warehouse alone. That’s the rule of the table."

"And if Torrio breaks the rule?"

"Then Raymond," a voice called from the shadow of the portico outside, "cleans up the mess."

Claire’s heart leaped into her throat.

The front door opened. Dominic stepped into the foyer.

He wasn't dead. He wasn't bleeding. But the white French-cuffed shirt he had worn under his coat was gone, replaced by a black tactical sweater. His coat was draped over his forearm, and his knuckles—broad, scarred, heavy—were raw and split across the right hand.

He looked up at Claire standing on the landing.

For a second, the predator was fully visible. His eyes were wide, dilated with adrenaline, his chest expanding with deep, ragged breaths. He looked like a god of war who had just walked off a smoking battlefield.

Claire didn't run. She walked down the remaining five steps until she was standing on the bottom tread, eye-to-eye with him.

"Is it done?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Dominic handed his coat to Raymond without looking away from her. "Torrio’s operations in Cleveland are concluded. His lieutenants have taken the terms. The debt is canceled. The bakery will have a private security detail starting at six a.m."

Claire looked at his split knuckles. A drop of dark crimson was slowly gathering near his ring finger.

"Did you kill him?" she whispered.

Dominic didn't answer immediately. He reached out with his uninjured left hand, his fingers tangling into the loose auburn curls at her nape, pulling her gently forward until their foreheads touched.

"I gave him a choice," Dominic murmured, the heat of his breath smelling of the cold night air and gunpowder. "He chose exile. He’s on a train to Montreal. If he ever steps south of Lake Ontario again, he won't make it to a hospital."

A sob of pure, unadulterated relief broke through Claire’s chest. She collapsed against him, her arms wrapping around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder. She didn't care about the blood on his hands; she didn't care about the dark empire he ruled. She only knew that the suffocating weight that had crushed her chest for two years had been lifted by the terrifying grace of this one man.

Dominic lifted her off the step.

He carried her like she weighed nothing, his arms hooked beneath her thighs, her hips bracketed against his waist as he carried her up the marble stairs toward his master suite.

"Dominic," she whispered against his neck, kissing the hot skin just below his ear. "Your hand..."