Chapter 2 - The Three O'Clock Knock
At precisely two-fifty-eight, the heavy oak door of the master suite creaked open.
It wasn't the physical therapist. It was Dominic.
He stood in the doorway wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, his golden-blond hair slicked back with expensive pomade, a sickeningly warm smile plastered across his face. He held a leather portfolio under one arm and a porcelain mug of black coffee in his hand.
“Vincent, my man,” Dominic said, striding into the room as if he owned the floorboards beneath his shoes. He barely glanced at Tessa, who was quietly folding towels by the armoire. “How are we holding up today? You look... alert. Color’s coming back.”
“Cut the act, Dominic,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the heavy, chilling weight that used to make junior partners sweat across my mahogany desk. “Where is Arya?”
Dominic paused mid-stride, his smile faltering for a microsecond before he smoothly recovered, sliding into the chair beside my bed that Arya had vacated earlier. He set his coffee down on the nightstand—directly over the spot where Tessa had hidden the transfer waiver beneath my mattress.
“Arya’s stressed, Vin,” Dominic sighed, putting on his best sympathetic expression. “The wedding planning, the pressure of running the household while you’re recovering... she went down to the dress boutique in the city. She needs a break. We all do.”
“Is that why you’re carrying legal transfer documents in your briefcase?” I asked, my eyes locked on his.
Dominic’s posture stiffened. The easygoing cousin act vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating glint in his blue eyes. He glanced sideways at Tessa, who continued folding towels without missing a beat, though her shoulders were tense.
“Ah,” Dominic murmured, leaning back in the chair and crossing one leg over the other. “So the hired help has been rummaging through things she shouldn't. Figures. You get what you pay for at twenty-five bucks an hour, cousin.”
“Tessa stays,” I said coldly. “And you answer my question. Since when does the executive vice president of Corvino Logistics moonlight as a probate lawyer for my personal estate?”
“Since you took a hollow-point spine-buster in an alley and left the company floating rudderless in a storm,” Dominic snapped back, his voice losing its veneer of warmth entirely. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, closing the distance between us. “Be realistic, Vincent. You aren't walking back into the boardroom anytime soon. The board is restless. The port authority is asking questions about who’s actually signing off on the new container terminals. If we don't consolidate voting shares under Arya, the entire holding company goes into receivership by the end of the quarter.”
“And you and Arya just happen to be the ones designated to save it,” I said, a humorless smirk touching the corners of my mouth.
“Someone has to hold the reins,” Dominic said defensively. “You built an empire, Vin, but empires crumble when the king refuses to abdicate the throne.”
Before I could answer, the chime of the downstairs elevator echoed faintly through the walls. A minute later, heavy footsteps strode down the hallway, followed by a sharp knock on the open door.
Dr. Marcus, my physical therapist, stood in the doorway with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking thoroughly out of breath.
“Mr. Corvino,” Marcus said, looking between Dominic and me with a nervous twitch in his brow. “I got an urgent call from... well, from your nurse here. She said we’re doing a session today. But I thought Mrs. Corvino explicitly canceled all afternoon bookings for the week.”
May you like
Dominic stood up slowly, glaring daggers at Dr. Marcus. “You thought correctly, Doctor. Turn around and walk back out to your car. There’s no session today.”
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