Chapter 5 - The War WithinFor three days, Emma avoided Dominic entirely.
She kept her head down, worked double-time in the west wing, and timed her shifts to ensure she never crossed paths with the master of the house. Margaret Doyle noticed the tension, sensing blood in the water, and subjected Emma to a relentless barrage of petty punishments—re-cleaning polished floors, scrubbing baseboards by hand, and taking on extra laundry loads.
Dominic watched it all from his second-floor office window.
For the first time in his life, his internal compass was spinning wildly out of control. Every instinct drilled into him by his father screamed to fire her immediately—or worse, to make her disappear quietly before her tongue could become a liability. She knew too much. She saw his weakness. She held a grudge deeply rooted in the Vale family's bloody history.
Yet, every time he closed his eyes, he saw her standing in the diner, handing her hard-earned cash to a desperate father.
On Friday night, Mason Reed entered the office without knocking, dropping a thick manila folder onto the desk with a heavy thud.
"We have a situation, boss," Mason said, his face grim.
Dominic didn't look up from his whiskey glass. "Talk."
"Vince Marcone’s crew is making a move on the South Side territory. They’re running high-interest loan sharking operations targeting local businesses, squeezing them out, and burning down anyone who can't pay."
Dominic’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing like ice. "Marcone operates north of the river. The South Side is neutral ground."
"Not anymore," Mason replied, sliding a photograph across the desk.
Dominic’s breath caught. The photo showed the exterior of Bea’s All-Night Diner. Fresh graffiti—Marcone’s distinct scorpion tag—was spray-painted across the front window. Below it, a brick lay on the shattered glass of the pavement.
"They hit her," Dominic whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Mason blinked, looking confused. "Who? Bea? The diner owner's been hospitalized with a broken arm. Marcone's thugs are demanding a five-thousand-dollar protection fee by midnight tonight, or they level the building."
Dominic slowly stood up. The air in the room grew heavy, suffocatingly cold. The lethal aura that made rival bosses wake up in cold sweats surged back into his veins, sharper and more violent than ever before.
"Get the cars ready," Dominic ordered, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. "Assemble every man in the primary detail."
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"Boss, it's Marcone," Mason warned. "Starting a turf war over a rundown diner on the South Side—"
"Who said anything about a turf war, Mason?" Dominic interrupted, locking his holster into place beneath his tailored suit jacket. "This isn't business. This is an execution."
