Chapter 8 - The Woman Beside the King
Three months later, I understood why people feared Dominic DeLuca.
It wasn't because he shouted.
He almost never did.
It wasn't because armed men followed him.
Usually they didn't.
It was because Dominic remembered everything.
A lie from twelve years ago.
A favor from twenty.
The name of a dockworker's daughter.
The exact sentence a banker had used when attempting to cheat him in 2009.
Unfortunately for Dominic, I remembered things too.
“You cannot buy my company.”
“I wasn't buying it.”
“You acquired seventeen percent.”
“Sixteen point eight.”
I stared across our breakfast table.
“Do you want to die?”
He calmly buttered toast.
“Not particularly.”
Hawthorne Maritime had survived.
The stolen money was partially recovered. Insurance and civil settlements covered much of the remaining damage.
My father retired.
And, to everyone's horror except mine, he named me CEO.
Dominic had responded by quietly buying shares when an outside investor tried to accumulate them.
He called it defensive.
I called it annoying.
“You promised independence.”
“You have it.”
“You own sixteen point eight percent.”
“As a passive shareholder.”
“You are the least passive human being I've ever met.”
His mouth twitched.
Marriage suited him.
It suited me too.
Not because it became easy.
Because it became ours.
Rosalie entered a cooperation agreement with federal investigators in the financial case against Salvatore's network. She moved into a smaller apartment and, for the first time in her life, got a job no one in our family arranged for her.
Julian resigned from DeLuca Strategic Holdings.
Dominic didn't stop him.
Father and son were speaking again, cautiously.
Julian and Rosalie were not together.
Not yet.
Perhaps never.
That wasn't my story anymore.
My story was the man sitting across from me pretending not to have bought nearly seventeen percent of my company because he was worried.
“You could have asked,” I said.
Dominic put down his knife.
“You would have said no.”
“Correct.”
“That seemed inefficient.”
I threw a napkin at him.
He caught it.
The feared Dominic DeLuca looked at the napkin in his hand.
Then at me.
“Violence?”
“Warning shot.”
He laughed.
I loved that sound.
I had not yet told him I loved him.
He hadn't told me either.
Somehow the absence of the words had become enormous.
That evening we attended a charity gala.
The ballroom was in Beacon Hill.
The same ballroom.
I realized it only when our car stopped outside.
Dominic noticed my silence.
“We can leave.”
“No.”
“You don't have to prove anything.”
“I know.”
I looked at the entrance.
“That's why I can go in.”
He offered his hand.
I took it.
Inside, the chandeliers looked smaller than I remembered.
Maybe humiliation magnified architecture.
People watched us.
Whispered.
I didn't care.
Then I saw Julian.
Beside him stood Rosalie.
Not touching.
Talking.
Rosalie saw me.
She hesitated.
Then approached.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled.
“No insult afterward. I'm growing.”
“Slowly.”
She laughed.
It felt almost like childhood.
Julian approached Dominic.
“Dad.”
“Julian.”
The two men looked at each other.
Julian cleared his throat.
“I owe both of you an apology.”
I said, “You already apologized.”
“Not properly.”
He looked at me.
“What I did was cowardly. Even if I thought I was protecting you, I made your choice for you. I publicly humiliated you because I was too afraid to ask for help.”
I waited.
Then nodded.
“Thank you.”
He turned to his father.
“And I underestimated you.”
Dominic's expression remained guarded.
“That was hereditary. I underestimated you first.”
Julian blinked.
It was probably the closest Dominic had come to apologizing in twenty years.
They shook hands.
Then Julian hugged him.
Dominic looked genuinely alarmed.
I laughed.
Later, the orchestra began playing.
Dominic extended his hand.
“Dance?”
“I thought mafia bosses didn't dance.”
“Another inaccurate stereotype.”
He led me onto the floor.
His hand settled at my waist.
Mine rested against his chest.
Almost exactly like the night we married, except this time there was no contract hovering invisibly between us.
“You knew,” I said.
“Knew what?”
“That this was the same ballroom.”
“Yes.”
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His gaze held mine.
“Because I didn't want the worst memory you had in this room to remain the last one.”
My throat tightened.
“Dominic.”
He stopped moving.
People danced around us.
“I love you,” I said.
There.
No fireworks.
No applause.
Just truth.
Something vulnerable crossed the face of a man people had spent decades fearing.
He touched my cheek.
“I have loved you carefully since the night you climbed into my car.”
I smiled.
“Carefully?”
“I was attempting to be responsible.”
“How did that go?”
“Poorly.”
I laughed against his shoulder.
Then he kissed me.
Around us, Boston society stared.
Again.
Only this time, I didn't want to disappear.
But when we returned home, Marco was waiting in the library.
His expression erased the evening instantly.
“What happened?”
He placed an envelope on the desk.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
Dominic and me dancing at the gala.
Taken less than an hour earlier.
Across my face, someone had drawn a red X.
On the back were five words.
Salvatore was never the king.
Dominic read them twice.
Then looked at Marco.
“Who was?”
Marco's answer made him go pale.
“Your father.”
I frowned.
“Vittorio is dead.”
May you like
Marco shook his head.
“We may have been wrong.”
