Chapter 7 - The Art of the Trap
The rain drummed a frantic rhythm against the shattered glass of the skylight as Dominic dragged the heavy oak bench across the second-floor landing to barricade the nursery entrance.
"Grace, get the girls into the emergency stairwell behind the walk-in closet," Dominic ordered, his voice flat, steady, and terrifyingly calm. "There's a subterranean drainage tunnel that leads out past the perimeter fence to the salt marshes. It's clean. No sensors."
Grace paused, her hand gripping the slide of her Glock. She looked from Dominic’s cold, unyielding amber eyes down to the three little girls clinging to her cardigan.
"What about you?" Grace asked, her professional facade cracking just enough to reveal the human being underneath. "Thorne brought a full cleanup crew. You can't hold this hallway alone with one magazine and a pistol."
"I'm not going to hold it," Dominic said, a dark, dangerous smile touching the corner of his mouth. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the micro-SD card he had recovered from Isabelle’s photo frame. "I'm going to invite him in."
"Dominic, that's suicide—"
"Go!"
The command left no room for argument. Grace nodded once, swept Nora up into her arms, and ushered Olivia and Sophie toward the master suite. The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind them, sealing them away from the war zone.
Dominic turned back to the landing. Downstairs, the heavy front doors groaned under the weight of a hydraulic battering ram. The first heavy blow sent shockwaves through the marble foyer.
Bang.
Bang.
Dominic didn't wait for them to breach. He slid down the banister, his boots hitting the marble floor of the grand foyer just as the massive oak front doors splintered inward, showering the entryway with wood and iron bolts.
Victor Thorne stepped through the ruined threshold, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries holding short-barreled carbines. Thorne’s silver hair was immaculate, untouched by the rain, and his smile was thin and predatory.
"Brave of you to come down to greet me, Dominic," Thorne said, leaning slightly on his silver-headed cane. "I expected you to cower in your panic room like your little friend Vince."
"Vince was a clerk playing at being a kingpin," Dominic replied, walking slowly toward the center of the foyer, his hands clearly visible at his sides, his Sig Sauer holstered. "Just like you, Victor, hiding behind the Commission because you didn't have the stomach to run the docks yourself."
Thorne’s smile tightened. "You always were arrogant, Romano. You thought because you controlled the physical distribution lines, you owned New York. But you forgot one simple rule: power belongs to whoever holds the debt."
"Is that why you killed Isabelle?" Dominic asked softly. The name hung in the damp air like a falling blade.
Thorne didn't blink. "Isabelle was a liability. She found the offshore ledgers in your private safe while you were in Chicago. She was going to take the girls and go to the federal authorities. We simply... facilitated her departure before she could ruin everything you and I built."
Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked beneath his left eye. Every drop of blood in his veins turned to liquid nitrogen.
"And the shooter?" Dominic whispered.
"A professional from Philadelphia," Thorne said smoothly, gesturing with his cane. "Dead now, of course. Can't leave loose ends. Just like you're going to be dead in—"
Thorne stopped. His eyes drifted down to Dominic’s left hand.
Dominic wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a small, black tactical remote control with a single red blinking LED light.
"What is that?" Thorne’s voice lost its polished edge for the first time.
"You remember when you bought this mansion for me back in 2018, Victor?" Dominic asked, his voice deathly quiet. "You told me the foundation was built on solid 1926 poured concrete and reinforced steel beams."
Thorne took a half-step backward. "Dom... what did you do?"
"I updated the wiring," Dominic said.
May you like
His thumb pressed the red button.
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