Chapter 4 - The Shadow in Rivergate
For three days, the cabin in the Blackwood Pines became my world.
It was a world of absolute silence, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace, the rustle of wind through the high pine canopy, and the low, rhythmic pacing of Dominic Vale.
He was a terrifying patient. By the second day, despite three stabbed ribs and a body covered in deep contusions, he refused to stay in bed. He spent hours standing by the wide wooden desk in the corner of the living room, operating two encrypted satellite phones, speaking in short, rapid sentences to men whose voices sounded like gravel turning in a cement mixer.
I watched him from the kitchen counter while I made soup or bandaged Atlas’s healing snout.
Dominic was a man who moved like a predator—every action precise, every word calculated. Yet, in the quiet moments when the phones were silent, I saw a different side of him.
He was meticulous. He washed his own coffee cup. He fed Atlas at precisely six in the morning and six in the evening. And whenever he spoke to me, his tone lost the razor-sharp edge he used with his associates.
“You’re staring, Claire,” he said on the afternoon of the third day, without looking up from a map spread across the desk.
I set a hot plate of grilled cheese sandwiches on the edge of the desk. “I’m trying to figure out how a man who got stabbed three times can eat two sandwiches and pretend his ribs aren't screaming.”
Dominic looked up, his gray eye meeting mine. The swelling on his face had gone down, revealing the sharp, high cheekbones and severe, handsome jawline beneath.
“Pain is just information,” he said flatly. “It tells you what’s broken. It doesn't mean you stop moving.”
“That’s a ridiculous philosophy,” I said, leaning against the desk. “Pain means you rest so your body can heal.”
“Rest is a luxury for people who aren't being hunted,” he replied, picking up a half-sandwich. He took a bite, chewed slowly, and looked at me. “Your mother called Marcus’s office this morning.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
Dominic tapped one of his satellite phones. “I have a tap on Marcus’s private landline. Your mother called his main business office in West Rivergate at nine o'clock. She was crying. She told his secretary that you had vanished, that your car was gone, and that she needed Caleb’s loan forgiven because her daughter was missing.”
I felt a sudden, icy numbness spread through my limbs.
“She called Marcus?” I whispered. “She doesn't even know who Marcus is, does she?”
“No,” Dominic said coldly. “Caleb gave her the number. He told her Marcus was his 'employer' who could help find you. He’s using your mother to search the city for you, Claire. He thinks if he finds you first, he can get to me before I rebuild my network.”
I pulled out a wooden desk chair and sat down heavily.
My own family was hunting me. Not out of love, not out of concern for my safety, but to hand me over to a syndicate executioner so Caleb’s eight-thousand-dollar debt could be erased.
“I hate them,” I whispered to the quiet room.
The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. Heavy. Toxic. For twenty-seven years, I had been trained to forgive, to sacrifice, to absorb every blow and turn the other cheek because they were family.
Dominic set his sandwich down. He reached across the desk, his broad, warm hand covering mine. His grip was firm, grounding me against the overwhelming tide of cold anger.
“Good,” Dominic said softly. “Hatred is useful. It keeps you clear-headed when sympathy tries to make you weak.”
“I’m not weak,” I said, looking directly into his eye.
“I know you’re not,” he murmured, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made my heart alter its rhythm. “A weak woman would have run back to her diner. A weak woman wouldn't be sitting in my cabin, drinking my coffee, and nursing my dog.”
He leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting into something dark and decisive.
“Tonight, we go back to Rivergate.”
I blinked. “Tonight? You can barely walk without wincing!”
“Marcus is calling a meeting of the family captains at midnight,” Dominic said, pulling a sleek black handgun from a desk drawer and checking the magazine with a practiced click. “He believes I’m dead, floating at the bottom of the river or buried in a ditch. He’s going to announce his takeover of Vale Logistics at the Rivergate Hotel.”
He slapped the magazine back into the grip with a sharp thwack.
“I’m going to attend that meeting,” Dominic said. “And you’re coming with me.”
I looked at the black gun, then at Dominic’s dark, unyielding face.
“Why me?” I asked.
Dominic stood up, walking around the desk until he was standing over me. He reached down, his fingers lightly brushing a strand of dark hair away from my cheek.
“Because,” he whispered, his thumb resting gently against my jaw, “Marcus thinks you’re a helpless waitress who got swallowed by the dark. I want him to look into your eyes right before I take everything he owns.”
My pulse raced against his thumb. I didn't pull away.
“What about Caleb?” I asked.
May you like
Dominic’s gray eye glinted like cold steel under the cabin lights.
“Your brother will be sitting right beside him.”
