Chapter 2 - THE WOLF AT THE THRESHOLDThe door swung inward, revealing Grant Mercer in a bespoke charcoal suit, his tailored cuffs gleaming with diamond-inlaid links. A self-satisfied smile played at the corners of his mouth—the look of a man who owned the room even when he wasn't sitting in the chair.
"Still locked, Dom?" Grant asked, stepping inside with an easy familiarity that always set Dominic's teeth on edge. His eyes flicked briefly toward Clara, who stood frozen with her bucket and cloth near the bookcase. "Ah, the new help. You're lingering longer than usual, Clara. The master doesn't like dust left undisturbed, especially around his rare first editions."
"She was finishing the baseboards, Grant," Dominic said smoothly, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Close the door. You’re letting the Lake Michigan draft in."
Grant stepped further into the room, his sharp eyes scanning the space. He paused near the desk, his hand hovering for a fraction of a second over the silver box where Dominic kept his secure burner phones—a subtle power play Grant performed every single day.
"I need your signature on the shipping manifests for the North Pier docks," Grant said, laying a thick leather folder across Dominic’s mahogany desk. "The syndicate heads in Cicero are getting restless. They want to know if the Vale organization is still backing the expansion into the container yards."
Dominic didn't look at the folder. He kept his gaze fixed on Grant. "Let them wait. A king doesn't rush his moves because the peasants are shouting."
Grant chuckled, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "The 'peasants' control half the shipping lanes in the Midwest, Dom. Sometimes I think sitting in this room makes you forget how fast the streets move. You’ve been isolated for six years. You rely on me to keep the machine running."
Six years.
The words echoed in Dominic’s mind like the strike of a hammer on an anvil. Every time Grant reminded him of his confinement, it had previously sounded like loyalty. Now, it sounded like a countdown timer.
"You've been a great help, cousin," Dominic said, his voice dangerously soft. "I'm beginning to realize just how much you've carried for me."
Grant narrowed his eyes, sensing a strange, unreadable shift in the room's atmosphere. He looked from Dominic to Clara, who kept her head bowed, staring intently at the pattern of the Persian rug.
"Right," Grant muttered, adjusting his cuffs. "Well, sign the papers when you have a moment. Dr. Kline is arriving for your afternoon session in twenty minutes. Make sure she’s out of your hair by then. You know how volatile your blood pressure gets after the injections."
With a sharp nod, Grant turned and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.
The moment the lock clicked, Clara let out a ragged breath she didn't realize she’d been holding.
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"He knows," she whispered.
"No," Dominic corrected, his face hardening into granite. "He thinks I'm a ghost in a box. And that arrogance is going to be his undoing. Clara... how fast can you smuggle a blood sample out of this house?"
