Chapter 10 - The Heir to the Crown
The heavy polymer grip of the Glock felt cold and steady against my palm. As I lifted the weapon from the tabletop, the metal clinked softly, drawing a sharp, instantaneous reaction from the two dangerous men standing across the room from each other.
Victor Costa’s amused smile flickered for a split second, replaced by a flash of genuine surprise as he looked down the barrel of the gun pointing squarely at his chest.
Dominic didn't flinch, his dark eyes shifting from Victor to me, watching with a mixture of raw intensity and profound, unspoken respect. He didn't order me to put the gun down. He knew better.
"Family?" I said, my voice echoing off the concrete walls of the subterranean bunker, steady and cold as winter ice. "You tried to blow up a hospital to kill me. You sent men with thermal charges to burn down my home. And now you stand here calling yourself my father?"
Victor’s expression hardened, the paternal facade dropping away to reveal the ruthless syndicate boss beneath. He kept his hands slowly visible inside his overcoat pockets, his blue eyes narrowing.
"Blood is blood, Clara," Victor replied, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr. "You can dress up in designer clothes, you can wear a mobster's ring, and you can point a gun at my chest. But at the end of the day, you carry my name in your veins. You're a Costa. You think Dominic Rossi loves you? He loves what those flash drives represent. He loves the leverage you give him over my empire."
"He didn't abandon me in a clinic," I shot back, my finger resting lightly against the trigger. "He didn't hunt me down in a ballroom. And he didn't try to bury me when I got in his way."
Victor chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "A naive little diner waitress playing mob wife. It’s pathetic. If you pull that trigger, Clara, you pull the pin on a war that will burn every square inch of this city to ash. The feds, the judges, the commissioners—they all answer to me. Without me, you have no shield."
"She doesn't need a shield," Dominic spoke up, his voice cutting through the damp air like a razor blade. He took two slow steps closer to Victor, his pistol never wavering. "Because she has an army. And she has me."
Victor’s gaze flicked back to Dominic, a flicker of genuine calculation crossing his face. He realized too late that he had miscalculated. He had assumed I was a terrified, compliant girl he could manipulate with a twisted sense of blood loyalty. He didn't realize that the suffering, the struggle, and the survival had forged something far stronger than a bloodline.
"Do it, Clara," Dominic murmured quietly, his eyes locked on mine. "End it."
I didn't hesitate. I pulled the slide back just enough to ensure the chamber was seated, my finger tightening on the trigger—not to murder him in cold blood, but to strip away every ounce of power he thought he held over my life.
Before I could fire, Victor's hand twitched inside his overcoat—a fraction of a second too late.
Crack.
Dominic's Sig Sauer barked once.
The bullet caught Victor squarely in the right shoulder, spinning him violently around and sending him crashing hard against the concrete floor. His pistol clattered out of his hand, skidding across the polished surface away from his reach.
Enzo and the guards moved in instantly, kicking away Victor's secondary weapons and pinning him to the ground with zip-ties clicked tight around his wrists.
Victor gritted his teeth, blood seeping through his charcoal coat as he glared up from the floor, defeated, bleeding, and entirely powerless.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the hum of the computer servers and the steady, rhythmic dripping of the overhead sprinklers.
Dominic slowly lowered his weapon, clicking the safety back into place before turning his attention entirely toward me. He walked across the bunker, the heavy tactical boots echoing against the concrete, until he stood right beside my cot.
He didn't say a word. He simply reached out, his large, warm hand gently taking the Glock from my trembling fingers and setting it back down on the table. Then, he cupped my face with his palm, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that completely eclipsed the violence of the room around us.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
I looked up at him, feeling the heavy gold ring on my finger catch the amber light of the bunker. The fear was gone. The confusion was gone. What remained was a cold, absolute certainty.
"I'm not a waitress anymore, am I?" I whispered.
May you like
Dominic’s lips curved into a slow, rare, and utterly devastating smile.
"Never again, Mrs. Rossi," he answered, leaning down to press his forehead gently against mine. "Welcome home."
