Chapter 7 - THE SILVER BRACELET
The standoff froze the air in the room.
Dominic held the shotgun leveled at Vincent’s chest. Vincent held the handgun aimed directly at my unborn child. And I was caught in the middle, my hands instinctively covering my stomach.
“I will cut you in half before you can pull that trigger, Vincent,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“Maybe,” Vincent replied, his eyes manic. “But it only takes a pound of pressure to fire this gun. Even if you hit me, my muscle spasms. The gun fires. Norah dies.”
He tilted his head.
“Are you willing to gamble her life on my reflexes?”
Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth would shatter. He stared at Vincent, calculating the terrifying geometry of the room.
Vincent was right. If Dominic fired, the reflex action could still kill me.
Slowly, agonizingly, Dominic lowered the barrel of the shotgun.
He tossed it onto the plush pink carpet.
“Kick it away,” Vincent ordered.
Dominic kicked the weapon into the corner.
“Good,” Vincent smiled. “Now, get on your knees.”
“Dominic, no,” I pleaded.
Dominic ignored me. The proud, ruthless head of the syndicate sank to his knees on the floor of the nursery, holding his hands up. He was surrendering his dignity, his power, and his life, all to protect me.
Vincent chuckled, a sick, victorious sound. He kept the gun aimed at me but walked slowly toward Dominic.
“You always thought you were better than me, Dom,” Vincent sneered. “You thought you owned this city. But look at you now. Begging.”
“Let her go, Vincent,” Dominic said quietly. “You want to punish me? Punish me. But let the mother of my child walk out of here.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
As Vincent stood over Dominic, gloating in his hollow victory, my eyes darted to the floor.
Resting near my feet was Elena’s diary. The one Vincent had thrown against the wall earlier.
Vincent was distracted. His focus was entirely on humiliating Dominic.
I didn’t think. I acted.
I bent down, scooped up the heavy leather diary, and threw it as hard as I could directly at Vincent’s face.
The heavy book struck him squarely in the cheek.
Vincent grunted in surprise, stumbling backward. His aim faltered for a fraction of a second.
It was all Dominic needed.
Dominic launched himself off the floor like a coiled spring. He tackled Vincent around the waist, driving him backward into the solid oak changing table.
The wood splintered. Both men crashed to the floor.
Vincent’s gun clattered across the room, sliding under the crib.
I scrambled backward, pressing myself against the wall, watching the two men tear into each other.
It was a brutal, primal fight. Years of hatred, grief, and lies boiling over into raw violence.
Dominic landed a devastating punch to Vincent’s jaw. Vincent retaliated, driving his knee into Dominic’s ribs.
They rolled across the pink carpet, crushing the fragile baby toys scattered on the floor.
Vincent managed to get on top. He reached into his boot and pulled out a tactical hunting knife.
“Dominic!” I screamed.
Vincent raised the blade, aiming for Dominic’s chest.
Dominic caught Vincent’s wrist with both hands, straining to keep the blade inches from his heart. The muscles in Dominic’s arms bulged, his face red with exertion.
Vincent pushed down with all his weight.
“You took my sister!” Vincent screamed, spit flying from his mouth.
As Vincent pressed down, the sleeve of his jacket slid back.
The delicate silver charm bracelet—Elena’s bracelet—dangled from his wrist, catching the light.
Dominic saw it.
He saw the bracelet of the wife he had mourned for five years. The wife he thought he had failed to protect.
“She was running from you!” Dominic roared, the truth I had discovered finally echoing from his own lips.
With a surge of adrenaline fueled by absolute heartbreak, Dominic twisted his hips violently. He threw Vincent off balance, reversing their positions.
Dominic pinned Vincent’s knife hand to the floor. With his free hand, he delivered a crushing blow to Vincent’s face. Then another. And another.
Vincent’s nose broke with a sickening crunch. His grip on the knife loosened.
Dominic snatched the knife from Vincent’s hand.
He raised the blade high above his head, ready to plunge it into the throat of the man who had murdered his wife.
Vincent didn’t fight back anymore. He looked up at the blade, his face covered in blood, and closed his eyes, accepting his fate.
Dominic’s chest heaved. The killing blow hovered in the air.
“Dominic, stop!”
My voice cracked through the room.
Dominic froze. The blade trembled in his hand.
I walked toward him, stepping over the broken furniture. I placed my hand gently on his broad, shaking shoulder.
“If you kill him like this,” I whispered, “you’re just like him. You’re a murderer in your baby’s nursery.”
Dominic stared down at Vincent.
“He killed Elena,” Dominic gasped, tears mixing with the sweat on his face.
“I know,” I said softly. “But he doesn’t get to take your soul, too. Let the elders deal with him. Let him rot.”
Dominic held the knife for three agonizing seconds.
Then, he drove the blade violently into the floorboards, an inch from Vincent’s ear.
Dominic stood up, backing away from the broken man on the floor.
He turned to me.
May you like
He didn’t say a word. He just wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my neck, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.
We survived.
