Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD IN THE BACK SEAT
Dr. Russo didn’t ask questions.
He was an older man with tired eyes who carried a black leather bag and understood that working for Dominic Valenti meant keeping your mouth shut.
I sat on the edge of the velvet chair in Dominic’s private upstairs office.
My right foot was resting on a footstool.
Dr. Russo carefully cleaned the deep, jagged gash across my Achilles.
“You need stitches, Emma,” he said quietly. “Six, at least. And antibiotics. This wound has dirt and grease in it. It wasn’t made by a broken kitchen tray.”
I stared at the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.
“Just wrap it, please.”
“If I just wrap it, it will get infected.”
Before I could argue, the heavy oak doors of the office swung open.
Dominic walked in.
He had taken off his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the dark ink of tattoos on his forearms that most of his society guests never saw.
He didn’t look angry.
He looked cold. Which, I was learning, was far more dangerous.
“Wait outside, Doctor,” Dominic said.
Dr. Russo immediately packed his bag and left, closing the door firmly behind him.
The silence in the room was suffocating.
Dominic walked over to his massive mahogany desk. He picked up his phone, tapped the screen twice, and turned it around so I could see it.
It was a security photo of a luxury sedan parked in the estate’s garage.
The back door was open.
The plush beige leather was stained with a massive, smeared pool of dark crimson blood.
“Marcus’s car,” Dominic said. His voice was a low, terrifying rumble.
I couldn’t breathe. I pulled my knees to my chest, ignoring the blinding pain in my heel.
“Emma,” Dominic said, stepping closer. “At nine-forty this morning, my security cameras caught Marcus Hale driving through the back gates. You were in the back seat.”
I closed my eyes.
“You clocked in at ten-thirteen,” he continued. “And Marcus spent the next hour detailing the back of his car with bleach. He missed a spot under the floor mat.”
Dominic knelt down in front of my chair.
He was so close I could smell his cologne—cedar and dark amber.
“I am going to ask you one time,” Dominic said quietly. “What did my house manager do to you?”
A tear slipped down my cheek. “If I tell you, he’ll kill her.”
Dominic went completely still.
The dangerous energy radiating from him suddenly shifted. It didn’t diminish. It sharpened.
“Her?” he whispered.
I reached into the pocket of my black maid’s apron. My fingers trembled violently as I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
I handed it to him.
Dominic unfolded it.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayons on construction paper. A little girl with blonde hair holding hands with a woman in a black dress. At the top, in uneven, childish handwriting, it said: I love you, Mommy.
“My daughter,” I choked out. “Lily. She’s six.”
Dominic stared at the drawing. A muscle in his jaw feathered.
“Where is she, Emma?”
“I don’t know,” I sobbed, the secret finally breaking out of me. “Marcus took her from her babysitter yesterday. He told me if I didn’t do exactly what he said, I’d never see her again.”
Dominic looked at my bleeding foot. “And the car?”
“I tried to fight him this morning. I tried to pull him out of the driver’s seat. He slammed the heavy steel car door on my ankle. Then he smiled and told me to go serve dinner.”
Dominic’s eyes turned pitch black.
He stood up slowly. He didn't yell. He didn't throw anything.
He just placed the child’s drawing gently on his desk.
“Marcus just left the dining room,” Dominic said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
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“Did he run?” I asked, panic seizing my chest.
“No,” Dominic replied, pulling a heavy black handgun from his desk drawer. “He didn’t go to the garage. He went to the west wing. Where my safe is.”
