Chapter 5 - The Morning After She Chose the Devil, a Stranger Arrived With Her Wedding PhotographThe first thing Clara Hayes noticed the morning after she kissed Dominic Gallo was that someone had replaced the coffee.
Not the machine.
Not the mugs.
The coffee itself.
For months, Dominic's kitchen had contained an expensive Italian espresso blend that tasted, to Clara, like somebody had roasted an old leather shoe and charged forty dollars for the privilege. This morning, a familiar blue-and-white bag sat beside the machine.
Her brand.
The cheap grocery-store coffee she bought whenever her paycheck allowed it.
She stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, wearing Dominic's oversized gray sweatshirt, and stared at the bag.
Behind her, a low voice said, "You're looking at that coffee like it insulted your family."
Clara turned.
Dominic stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing black trousers and an unbuttoned charcoal shirt. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, and the white dressing she had applied to his ribs showed beneath the fabric.
He looked tired.
Dangerously handsome.
And entirely too pleased with himself.
"Did you buy this?" she asked.
"I own several companies. Occasionally, I purchase groceries."
"Dominic."
"What?"
"You drink espresso that costs more than my electric bill."
"Apparently, my taste is terrible."
She lifted the coffee bag.
"You sent somebody to my apartment."
"Frank."
"Frank is recovering from three gunshot wounds."
"He gave instructions from his hospital bed."
Clara shook her head, fighting a smile.
"Your organization is ridiculous."
"Efficient," Dominic corrected.
"Ridiculous."
He approached slowly, giving her room to move away if she wanted.
She noticed.
She noticed everything about him now.
The way he never touched her unexpectedly.
The way he watched her face before moving closer.
The way he had begun keeping his hands visible whenever they argued.
He had learned her fear without demanding that she surrender it.
And somehow, that frightened her more than the guns.
"How are your stitches?" she asked.
"Fine."
"That wasn't a medical answer."
"They're still attached."
"Sit down."
"Good morning to you, too."
"Dominic."
He sat.
The city outside was waking beneath a pale October sky. Delivery trucks crawled through the streets, commuters hurried beneath umbrellas, and somewhere below them, the Onyx Club's kitchen staff were preparing for another evening of serving expensive dinners to people who pretended not to know who owned the building.
Clara carefully lifted Dominic's shirt.
The dressing was clean.
The wound showed no obvious signs of infection.
She checked the edges, then replaced the bandage.
"You're healing," she said.
"Disappointed?"
"Terribly. I was hoping for a quiet week without your personality."
His mouth curved.
She finished securing the dressing.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Dominic took her hand.
Not her wrist.
Not her arm.
Her hand.
"About last night."
Clara's stomach tightened.
She knew this conversation was coming.
The kiss had changed something fundamental between them. It had been impulsive, desperate, and undeniably mutual.
But a kiss did not erase the difference between their worlds.
"I meant it," she said quietly.
His eyes lifted.
"Which part?"
"Staying."
Dominic's expression changed.
"Clara, I don't want you making a decision because you're frightened of what happens outside these walls."
"I'm not."
"Or because you think you owe me something."
"I don't."
"Or because—"
"Dominic."
She leaned forward.
"I stayed because I wanted to kiss you."
Silence.
Then the most feared man in the city looked momentarily incapable of speech.
Clara smiled.
It felt strange.
She had forgotten how good smiling could feel when it wasn't something she performed to keep another person calm.
"That's all," she continued. "It doesn't mean I'm signing my life away. It doesn't mean I quit nursing. And it definitely doesn't mean you're allowed to buy me another house."
"I was considering a hospital."
"Don't."
"A small one."
"Dominic."
"Very tasteful."
She laughed.
The sound surprised them both.
Dominic stared at her as though he had just witnessed something extraordinary.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I know."
She stepped closer and kissed his cheek.
"Get used to it."
For the next three hours, Clara allowed herself to imagine that their biggest problem might be figuring out how two stubborn adults could share a kitchen.
Then Frank called.
Dominic answered on speaker while Clara was washing dishes.
"Boss."
Frank's voice sounded rough.
"You're supposed to be resting," Dominic said.
"Yeah, well, somebody forgot to tell the idiots working downstairs."
"What happened?"
A pause.
"Got a visitor."
Dominic's expression hardened.
"Who?"
"Guy from Seattle. Expensive coat. Expensive watch. Face like he practices smiling in a mirror."
Clara's hands stopped moving.
Water continued running over the plate.
Frank went on.
"Says his name is David Cole."
The plate slipped.
It struck the sink and shattered.
Dominic turned.
Clara stood motionless, staring at the broken porcelain.
For five years, she had imagined hearing that name again.
In nightmares.
In crowded elevators.
Whenever an unfamiliar car slowed near her apartment.
But she had never imagined hearing it in Dominic's kitchen.
"Clara?"
His voice seemed to come from very far away.
She couldn't answer.
Frank continued.
"He says he's here to collect his wife."
Dominic's face became absolutely still.
"Where is he?"
"Downstairs. Private dining room. Two guys with him."
"Keep him there."
"Boss, there's something else."
"What?"
"He brought a photograph."
Clara closed her eyes.
Frank hesitated.
"It's a wedding picture. Him and Nurse Hayes."
Dominic ended the call.
The kitchen fell silent except for the running water.
He reached past Clara and turned off the faucet.
"Look at me."
She couldn't.
"Clara."
She forced herself to raise her eyes.
"Did you know he was coming?"
"No."
"Has he contacted you?"
"No."
"Has anyone from Seattle contacted you recently?"
She shook her head.
Dominic studied her face.
Then he said something she hadn't expected.
"You don't have to see him."
Clara swallowed.
"He knows I'm here."
"Yes."
"He knows about you."
"Apparently."
She stared toward the windows.
The city stretched endlessly beneath the gray sky.
For five years, she had convinced herself that distance was safety.
Two thousand miles.
A different name.
A different life.
Yet David had crossed the country as easily as somebody changing lanes.
"How?" she whispered.
Dominic didn't answer immediately.
That frightened her.
"How did he find me?"
"I don't know yet."
She looked at him sharply.
"You ran a background check. You knew about my marriage. Did you contact him?"
"No."
"Did your people?"
"No."
"Then how?"
Dominic stepped back.
"I'll find out."
Clara gripped the counter.
Her mind had already begun racing through possibilities.
Hospital employment records.
Tax filings.
A careless social media photograph.
The police reports Dominic had obtained.
Then another thought arrived.
One that made her blood turn cold.
"David doesn't travel without a reason."
Dominic watched her.
"He wants something."
"Maybe you."
"No."
She shook her head.
"Not after five years. Not after everything he did to make sure I disappeared quietly."
"What do you mean?"
Clara looked down at her hands.
The old memories were rising now.
Seattle.
Rain against the windows of their expensive house.
David's polished shoes.
His perfect courtroom voice.
The smell of whiskey on his breath.
And the night she discovered the folder.
She had never told anyone about that folder.
Not the police.
Not her divorce attorney.
Not even the counselor who helped her leave.
"Before I escaped," she said slowly, "David was representing a private investment group."
Dominic's expression sharpened.
"What group?"
"I never knew the name. He kept the files locked in his office."
"Clara."
She looked at him.
"One night, I found a folder on his desk. There were shipping manifests, bank transfers, and photographs of men I didn't recognize."
She swallowed.
"One of the photographs showed a warehouse."
Dominic waited.
"It had a black bird painted on the loading door."
Something moved across his face.
Recognition.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Black bird. Wings spread?"
She nodded.
Dominic went very still.
"That was a Maroni warehouse."
Clara stared.
"What?"
"Their shipping operation used a raven as a marker on certain properties."
The room seemed to tilt.
David Cole.
The Maroni family.
The shooting at the docks.
The men who had come searching for Toby.
All the pieces were beginning to connect.
"David saw me looking at the folder," Clara whispered.
Dominic's jaw tightened.
"What happened?"
"He took it away. Asked what I'd seen."
She pressed her lips together.
"I told him nothing."
"And?"
"He didn't believe me."
Dominic's hands closed slowly.
Clara could see the violence gathering behind his eyes.
She stepped forward.
"Don't."
He looked at her.
"You promised."
His jaw worked.
Then he nodded.
"I remember."
She breathed again.
"That was the night he broke my collarbone."
Dominic turned toward the window.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he removed his phone.
"Frank."
The call connected immediately.
"Boss?"
"Nobody touches Cole."
A pause.
"Seriously?"
"Nobody."
"Got it."
"Keep him comfortable. Feed him. Make sure he doesn't leave."
Frank chuckled weakly.
"Comfortable prison. My specialty."
Dominic ended the call.
Clara looked at him.
"What are you going to do?"
"Ask him why he's here."
"And if he lies?"
"He will."
"Then what?"
Dominic met her eyes.
"Then we'll find out what he's hiding."
She hated the word we.
Not because she wanted to face David alone.
But because she understood how easily one dangerous man could become another man's excuse for violence.
"Dominic, listen carefully."
He waited.
"If David is involved in whatever happened to Toby, I want the truth."
"You'll have it."
"But I will not be used as bait."
"No."
"And I will not stand in a room while you threaten to kill him."
Dominic's gaze remained steady.
"Then you won't."
She searched his face.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
It was the second promise she had demanded from him.
And she knew enough about Dominic Gallo to understand that promises were not something he made casually.
Still, fear settled beneath her ribs.
Because David had always been most dangerous when he appeared reasonable.
And right now, he was sitting downstairs in a private dining room, probably drinking expensive coffee, smiling politely, and preparing to destroy everything she had built.
David Cole had aged well.
That was the first thing Clara noticed when she entered the private dining room twenty minutes later.
His blond hair was shorter.
His jaw was slightly heavier.
There were faint lines around his blue eyes.
But he still looked like the sort of man mothers trusted and judges invited to charity dinners.
He wore a navy suit and a pale silk tie.
A silver wedding band gleamed on his left hand.
Clara stopped.
He was still wearing it.
"Clara."
David rose slowly.
His smile was warm.
Almost tender.
"My God. Look at you."
Dominic stood beside her.
Frank occupied a chair near the door, his injured leg extended, a cane resting across his lap.
Two of Dominic's men stood behind David's companions.
No weapons were visible.
That somehow made the room more threatening.
David took a step forward.
Clara moved back.
He stopped.
His smile faltered for only a fraction of a second.
"Still nervous around me?"
Dominic's expression darkened.
Clara answered before he could speak.
"Why are you here?"
David looked wounded.
"Is that how you greet your husband?"
"Ex-husband."
"Technically, our divorce was never finalized."
The words struck her harder than she expected.
"What?"
David reached into his briefcase.
Dominic's men shifted immediately.
David raised his hands.
"Paperwork. Nothing more."
He withdrew a thin folder and placed it on the table.
"Your attorney filed the petition. But the final decree was never entered."
Clara stared at him.
"That's impossible."
"I'm afraid not."
"You're lying."
"Then call the court."
She wanted to.
Immediately.
But her phone was upstairs.
And David knew it.
He always knew how to create uncertainty.
Dominic pulled out a chair.
"Sit down, Mr. Cole."
David glanced at him.
"Ah. Dominic Gallo."
"Sit."
David smiled.
"You're exactly as charming as your reputation suggests."
He sat.
Clara remained standing.
"Tell me why you're here."
David folded his hands.
"Because someone is going to kill you."
A cold silence settled over the room.
Dominic leaned back.
"Interesting opening."
David ignored him.
"Clara, five years ago, you saw documents you weren't supposed to see."
Her heart began pounding.
"You remember the warehouse?"
She said nothing.
"The transfers?"
Nothing.
David sighed.
"I knew you remembered."
Dominic's voice cut through the silence.
"Who sent you?"
David finally looked directly at him.
"Someone who knows your brother survived."
Dominic didn't move.
David continued.
"Someone who knows the Maroni leadership was destroyed."
A faint smile.
"And someone who knows that the man responsible for Toby's shooting is still alive."
Frank stopped tapping his cane.
Dominic's eyes narrowed.
"Name."
David shook his head.
"Not yet."
Clara felt sick.
David was enjoying this.
He always enjoyed being the only person in the room who knew the answer.
"What do you want?" she asked.
He looked at her.
And for the first time, his smile disappeared.
"I want what you took from my office."
Clara stared.
"I didn't take anything."
David's eyes hardened.
"Don't lie to me."
The familiar tone hit her like a slap.
For one terrible instant, she was back in their Seattle kitchen.
Twenty-six years old.
Barefoot.
Terrified.
Trying to remember which answer would keep him calm.
Her shoulders tightened.
Dominic noticed.
But he didn't intervene.
He let her answer.
"I didn't take your folder, David."
David leaned forward.
"Then where is the copy?"
Clara blinked.
"What copy?"
"The copy you made before you left."
"I didn't make one."
He stared at her.
Then slowly shook his head.
"You really don't remember."
Clara's breath caught.
David opened his briefcase again.
This time, he removed a photograph.
He slid it across the table.
Clara looked down.
It showed a woman standing outside a Seattle storage facility.
Dark hair.
Black coat.
A bruised face.
Her.
The photograph had been taken five years earlier.
On the morning she escaped.
Clara stared at the image.
"I don't understand."
David leaned closer.
"That morning, you rented a storage locker under your mother's maiden name."
Her pulse hammered.
"Inside it, you left a suitcase."
She remembered the suitcase.
Old clothes.
A few family photographs.
Emergency cash.
Nothing important.
At least, that was what she had believed.
David's next words emptied the air from her lungs.
"Three weeks ago, somebody opened that locker."
Dominic leaned forward.
"Who?"
David looked at Clara.
"That's what I came to ask my wife."
Clara couldn't speak.
David reached into his pocket.
He placed a small brass key on the table.
Stamped into its surface were three numbers.
317.
Then he said, "Whoever opened that locker murdered my business partner the next morning."
And for the first time since David entered the room, Dominic Gallo looked genuinely surprised.
May you like
Because he recognized the number.
And he knew exactly what had been hidden inside that suitcase.
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