Chapter 5 - The Removal of Shrouds
An hour later, the penthouse was bathed in the warm, golden glow of evening lamps.
Dominic walked through the wide hallway, holding a small pair of brass shears.
Lydia walked beside him, wearing her dark green sweater, her eyes still slightly swollen from tears, but her posture renewed, grounded, and strong.
They stopped in front of the antique entrance mirror.
The white sheet still hung over the glass like a shroud.
Dominic handed the shears to Lydia. “Your house, Mrs. Vale. You take it down.”
Lydia looked at the brass shears, then up at her husband. The fear that had paralyzed her for seventy-two hours was gone, replaced by a cold, burning anger toward the men who had attempted to use her vulnerability as a weapon against the man she loved.
She reached up, caught the edge of the white sheet, and pulled it down with a firm, sharp tug.
The fabric collapsed onto the floor in a soft heap.
The pristine, hand-carved silver mirror was revealed once more.
Lydia stepped in front of the glass.
In the reflection, she saw herself—her generous curves highlighted by the soft sweater, her auburn hair falling over her shoulders, her hazel eyes bright and clear.
And standing directly behind her, his large hands resting securely on her shoulders, was Dominic.
In the glass, he didn't look like a monster. He looked like a protector—a man whose strength was a fortress built around the woman he cherished above all else.
Lydia reached up, placing her hands over his on her shoulders, looking into his eyes through the reflection.
“It’s clean,” she whispered softly.
“It was always clean, my love,” Dominic replied, leaning down to press a warm kiss to the side of her neck.
By nine o'clock that evening, every sheet, every piece of brown packing paper, and every piece of tape had been removed from the apartment. The bedroom mirror was rehung on its brass mounts, reflecting the warm fire crackling in the hearth.
As they sat together on the wide leather sofa in the living room, sharing a bottle of red wine, Dominic’s secure phone buzzed on the coffee table.
It was a text from Marcus: The Cicero basement is ready. Victor Moretti’s private jet just landed at Midway.
Dominic looked down at the screen, his face hardening for a fraction of a second into that familiar, lethal mask.
Lydia, sitting beside him with her head resting on his shoulder, saw the shift immediately. She reached out, laying her hand over his phone.
“He tried to use me to destroy you, didn't he?” Lydia asked quietly.
Dominic turned his head to look at her. “Victor Moretti thought if he broke your mind, I would become reckless. He thought I would burn my own empire down trying to find out what happened to you.”
Lydia’s hazel eyes narrowed into two sharp, fierce points of light.
“Then don't burn your empire down, Dominic,” she said, her voice dropping into a register that surprised even him with its absolute, unyielding coldness. “Take his.”
Dominic stared at his wife—the woman who had once run a small floral business in Milwaukee, the woman whose mother had cleaned hotel rooms, the woman who had stood between an arrogant donor and a waitress.
She wasn't hiding behind the darkness anymore.
She was standing beside him in the light.
May you like
A slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile touched Dominic Vale’s lips.
“As you wish, Mrs. Vale,” he whispered.
