Chapter 9 - The Trial of the Traitor
The mole within Maison de Corbeau was unmasked less than twelve hours later.
Marcus Cole, operating with cold, ruthless efficiency, traced the encrypted communication logs from the Brooklyn strike force straight to a surprising source: Julian Vance, Dominic’s own cousin and chief financial officer, who had grown bitter over Dominic’s refusal to expand into narcotics trafficking.
The trial—conducted in the subterranean wine cellar of the estate under the harsh, flickering light of a single overhead bulb—was swift and absolute.
Julian sat bound to a heavy wooden chair, sweating profusely as Dominic stood before him, resting his hands casually in his trouser pockets, looking down with the terrifying detachment of an executioner.
I stood a few paces back near the shadow of the brick arches, flanked by Marcus and two armed guards, watching the empire defend itself from within.
“You traded my family’s name, our security, and the lives of my staff to a bunch of Brooklyn thugs for a cut of their dirty powder money,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“You’re losing your edge, Dominic!” Julian spat, bleeding from a split lip, laughing hysterically. “You’ve gone soft! Ever since you hired that little housekeeper, you’ve been distracted! You don't have the stomach for the syndicate anymore!”
Dominic didn't raise his voice. He didn't blink.
He simply looked at Marcus. “Take him to the Westchester docks. Put him on a freighter bound for South America. Make sure he understands that if he ever sets foot in the United States again, his next stop won't be a boat.”
Julian’s defiant laughter died instantly, replaced by panicked screams as Marcus and the guards hauled him out of the cellar into the cold night air.
When the heavy oak doors slammed shut, sealing us in the quiet silence of the wine cellar, the raw, crushing weight of the last twenty-four hours finally settled over the room.
Dominic stood alone under the single overhead bulb, his shoulders slumping slightly, the adrenaline completely draining from his system, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
Slowly, I walked out of the shadows, crossed the stone floor, and stepped up beside him.
Without a word, I reached out and took his large, calloused hand in mine.
Dominic turned his head, looking down at our intertwined fingers, before lifting his dark eyes to meet mine. The storm inside him had finally subsided, leaving behind something softer, warmer, and infinitely more fragile.
“It’s over,” I whispered.
“For tonight,” Dominic agreed, his voice a soft rasp. He squeezed my hand gently, lifting it to press a warm, lingering kiss against my knuckles. “Tomorrow, we rebuild the gates. We patch the security leaks. We reshape this entire estate from the ground up.”
“And the rules?” I asked with a small, teasing smile. “Do we still keep the no-music policy in the west wing?”
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Dominic let out a genuine, low chuckle—a sound so warm and relaxed it felt like a miracle in that dark stone cellar.
“Starting tomorrow,” Dominic murmured, pulling me gently against his side, “the west wing is officially required to play jazz and pop music between the hours of two and four every single afternoon.”
