Chapter 3 - ONE NIGHT, SIX MONTHS AGO
Dominic’s penthouse had bulletproof windows.
Mara learned that before she learned where the bathroom was.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he said.
“No.”
“Mara.”
“No.”
“You received a photograph taken while you were sleeping.”
“And staying with a mafia boss is supposed to make me feel safer?”
One of Dominic’s men coughed into his fist.
Dominic glanced at him.
The man immediately found something fascinating on the opposite wall.
Mara folded her arms.
“I need my things.”
“They’ll be collected.”
“I can collect them myself.”
“No.”
“Do you know any other word?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Absolutely not.”
She glared at him.
He handed his phone to one of his men.
“Marco, get two people to the Thorne house. Her room only. Bring everything.”
Mara snapped, “Stop deciding things for me.”
Dominic’s eyes shifted back to hers.
The room went quiet.
Then, unexpectedly, he nodded.
“Fair.”
She blinked.
He walked to the kitchen, poured water into a glass and set it in front of her.
“I’m used to giving orders.”
“I noticed.”
“And I’m used to people following them.”
“I noticed that too.”
“You don’t.”
“No.”
Another almost-smile.
“That I definitely noticed.”
She drank the water because her mouth was dry.
Dominic stood across from her, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Without the coat, without the graveyard fog, he looked painfully familiar.
Six months ago he had been simply “Dom.”
A stranger at the end of a hotel bar.
She had gone there after receiving a wedding announcement online.
PRESTON REED AND BIANCA THORNE CELEBRATE ONE YEAR OF MARRIAGE.
One year.
Exactly two years after Preston had signed divorce papers and told Mara he loved her but loved his career more.
She had ordered bourbon.
Dominic had said, “You look like you want to throw that glass at somebody.”
She had replied, “I’m deciding between the glass and the bottle.”
He laughed.
It had been the first good sound she’d heard in weeks.
They talked until two in the morning.
No last names.
No jobs.
No promises.
He told her his mother died when he was twenty.
She told him hers was dead too.
He said loneliness made people do stupid things.
Mara said, “Maybe I want to do something stupid.”
He looked at her for a long time.
Then asked, “Are you sure?”
She kissed him first.
Now, six months later, the consequences of that one night were alive beneath her heart.
Dominic leaned against the counter.
“You lied to me at the cemetery.”
Mara looked away.
“I was scared.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
That hurt him.
She saw it.
Good, she thought.
Then immediately felt guilty.
Dominic rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“I’m not asking you to trust me because we spent one night together.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“For the truth.”
Mara’s eyes burned.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“I woke up the next morning and you were gone.”
His expression changed.
“I left a number.”
“The maid threw it away before I woke up. I asked the hotel. They wouldn’t tell me who you were.”
Dominic swore quietly.
“I thought you left because you regretted it.”
“I thought you wanted it that way.”
“I didn’t.”
Silence.
The baby moved again.
Mara pressed her palm to her stomach.
Dominic noticed.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Mara.”
She looked at him.
He did not demand.
He did not threaten.
He simply asked.
“Is the child mine?”
Her throat closed.
“Yes.”
Dominic stopped breathing.
Mara had expected anger.
Maybe suspicion.
Maybe cold calculation.
She had not expected him to sit down.
Slowly.
Like his knees had forgotten how to hold him.
“Yes?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He stared at the floor.
Then at her stomach.
Then back at her.
For the first time since she had met him, Dominic Vale looked completely defenseless.
A buzzer sounded.
Marco entered carrying a cardboard box.
He looked grim.
“We got her things.”
Mara stood.
“That’s all?”
Marco set down the box.
“That’s all that was left.”
“What does that mean?”
He reached inside.
Pulled out a photograph.
Her mother.
Mara.
Preston.
The picture had been sliced down the middle with a knife.
Then Marco placed something else on the table.
A small black listening device.
“We found this under her mattress.”
Dominic’s face hardened.
Marco continued.
“And there’s more.”
He held up an envelope stamped with the seal of the United States Senate.
Mara recognized the handwriting.
Senator Richard Thorne.
The father of the woman who had slapped her.
On the envelope, three words were written by hand:
ELEANOR WHITFIELD — CONFIDENTIAL.
May you like
Mara’s blood turned cold.
“My mother knew Senator Thorne?”
