Chapter 2 - The Gold Cage of WestbridgeThe Moretti estate didn’t look like a fortress from the outside; it looked like a mausoleum swallowed by manicured hedges and century-old oaks. Iron gates—tall enough to deter a tank—swung open silently as the SUV approached.
Emily clutched Bolt tightly against her chest the second they stepped out of the car. The puppy had finally woken up, shaking his little golden ears and immediately starting to chew on the silver zipper of Emily's worn-out jacket.
"Traitor," she muttered under her breath, scratching him behind the ears while casting wide, panicked glances at the dozen armed men standing at attention along the stone portico.
"Bring them to the east wing," Dominic instructed Antonio as he strode toward the double mahogany doors. He didn't look back to see if she was following. He didn't need to. The sheer gravity of his presence pulled her along like a current.
Inside, the mansion was a museum of dark wood, marble pillars, and terrifyingly expensive oil paintings that looked like they belonged in the Louvre. But it was freezing. Not a physical cold, but an atmospheric chill that spoke of men who lived without warmth or mercy.
They were led into a sprawling, modern kitchen that contrasted sharply with the gothic antiquity of the rest of the house. A middle-aged woman with hair pulled back into a severe bun and eyes like polished obsidian stood by a massive marble island, holding a silver tray.
"Mrs. Moretti?" Emily blurted out before she could stop herself.
The woman froze, a faint, humorless smile touching her lips. "Heavens no, child. I’m Marta. I’ve run this house since Dominic was in knee-high trousers. And you must be the stray he dragged in off the street."
"I'm Emily. And I'm not a stray, my dog is—well, he chose to be a stray apparently." Emily set Bolt down on the heated tile floor. The puppy immediately trotted over to Marta’s pristine black heels and began sniffing them with intense investigative vigor.
Marta’s stern face cracked, a genuine, warm smile breaking through. "Well, aren't you a bold little criminal? Come here, sweet thing." She reached down, scooping Bolt up effortlessly.
"Watch out, he sheds and he chews on everything," Emily warned, wringing her hands.
"Let him chew. The furniture in this house has survived blood feuds; it can survive a ten-pound furball," Marta chuckled, turning her sharp eyes back to Emily. "Sit down at the island, dear. You look like you haven't eaten a square meal since the administration changed."
Before Emily could refuse, a steaming bowl of rich vegetable soup and a plate of crusty artisan bread materialized in front of her. Her stomach gave a treasonous, loud rumble that echoed off the high ceilings.
Dominic walked into the kitchen just then, having shed his suit jacket. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick, corded forearms dusted with dark hair and a few faint, jagged scars.
He pulled out a stool opposite Emily and sat down, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.
"Eat," he ordered softly.
"I can't accept this," Emily mumbled, though her hand was already trembling as it reached for the spoon. "You're... you're a crime lord. What kind of movie am I trapped in?"
"The kind where you don't survive the first act if you don't keep your strength up," Dominic replied, his dark eyes unwavering. "The Federal Bureau of Investigation has been sniffing around my shipping ports for six months. Today's hit wasn't an accident. A federal task force is trying to build a RICO case against me."
Emily choked on a spoonful of soup, coughing violently. Marta rushed over with a glass of water, shooting a mild glare at Dominic.
"Must you discuss business while the poor girl is eating?" Marta scolded.
"She needs to know why she can't go home yet," Dominic said, though he took a sip of his own black coffee without breaking eye contact with Emily. "The men who attacked my convoy today? They didn't want the cargo. They wanted a distraction. Someone inside my organization leaked a ledger—a ledger containing names, bank accounts, and federal informants."
Emily wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, her eyes wide. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Nothing," Dominic said slowly. "Directly, nothing. But your apartment building sits directly across the street from a safehouse utilized by the federal task force leading the investigation. And an hour before your dog jumped into my car, a man matching the description of my leak was spotted entering your building."
Emily’s breath caught. The new tenant in 4B. The guy who always wore a hoodie, paid his rent in cash, and never made a sound.
"He... he lives in Apartment 4B," Emily whispered.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into twin slits of dark fire. "Did he leave anything with you? A package? A flash drive?"
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"No! I barely even talk to my neighbors! I work, I sleep, and I walk my dog!"
Just as Dominic opened his mouth to reply, a deafening explosion shattered the quiet of the estate, rattling the heavy glass windows and plunging the kitchen into sudden, absolute darkness.
