Chapter 4 - The Morning After the WarNema woke to the smell of smoke.
For several confused seconds, she did not know where she was.
Then pain announced itself.
Her shoulders hurt.
Her knees hurt.
There was a shallow cut across the back of her left hand she did not remember receiving.
And when she opened her eyes, she saw a bullet hole in the wall opposite the sofa.
Memory returned all at once.
The lodge.
The explosion.
Dom bleeding.
The cellar.
The kiss.
Nema sat up.
Gray morning light entered through plywood Leo had nailed over the shattered windows during the night. The expensive mountain lodge looked as though a storm had passed through its interior.
Except storms did not leave shell casings.
They did not leave bloodstains.
They did not leave dead men being carried outside before sunrise.
Nema looked toward the dining room.
Dom was gone.
Her heart immediately accelerated.
She stood too quickly.
“Dom?”
No answer.
She crossed the room.
The dining table where she had treated him had been cleaned, but a dark stain remained between the wooden boards.
“Dom?”
“Kitchen.”
His voice was rough.
Nema turned.
Dom stood near the counter wearing sweatpants and an unbuttoned black shirt.
He looked terrible.
His skin was pale.
The bandage around his torso showed beneath the open fabric.
And somehow he was making coffee.
Nema stared at him.
“You were shot approximately eight hours ago.”
“I remember.”
“You lost enough blood to turn my hands red.”
“I remember that too.”
“And you’re making coffee?”
Dom glanced at the machine.
“Seems appropriate.”
She walked toward him.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re leaning against the counter.”
“I like the counter.”
“You look like death.”
“I’ve looked worse.”
Nema stopped directly in front of him.
“Sit.”
Dom studied her.
The corner of his mouth moved.
“You become very authoritative when people bleed.”
“I worked double shifts for seven years. I know how to deal with stubborn men.”
He finally sat.
Nema took over the coffee.
Something had changed between them.
She felt it in the silence.
The kiss from the night before had not vanished with daylight.
It remained between them like another person in the room.
Nema poured two cups.
She placed one in front of Dom.
He looked at it.
“You’re trusting me again?”
“With coffee?”
“Yes.”
“I was never the one trying to poison you.”
“That is an excellent point.”
She sat across from him.
Outside, Leo was speaking with two men who had arrived before dawn.
Black SUVs filled the driveway.
The isolation was gone.
Dom’s people had found them.
“What happened in the city?” Nema asked.
Dom’s expression changed.
The warmth disappeared.
“Bianke’s main operation collapsed around four this morning.”
“Collapsed?”
“His people abandoned him.”
“Because you attacked?”
“Because they realized he’d lost.”
Nema wrapped both hands around her mug.
“And Bianke?”
Dom did not immediately answer.
“He disappeared.”
She looked up.
“I thought you said the war was over.”
“It is.”
“That doesn’t sound over.”
Dom leaned back carefully.
“Arthur Bianke lost his territory, his money, and most of his soldiers overnight. Whatever remains of his organization will be absorbed by someone else.”
“But he’s alive.”
“As far as we know.”
Nema stared at the steam rising from her coffee.
She had learned enough about Dom’s world to understand what that meant.
A man with nothing left could be more dangerous than a man protecting an empire.
Dom watched her.
“You’re thinking about London.”
“No.”
“You should.”
She looked at him.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m trying to give you options.”
“You gave me an option last night.”
“And you made an emotional decision after surviving a gunfight.”
Nema’s expression hardened.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Treat my decisions like they count only when you agree with them.”
Dom became still.
Nema continued.
“I stayed because I wanted to stay.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know the version of me that kept you alive.”
“And you know the version of me that served coffee.”
She leaned forward.
“Maybe neither of us knows the whole person yet.”
That silenced him.
Nema stood.
“I’m not asking you to marry me, Dom.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Good.”
“I’m saying I’m not getting on an airplane because you decided disappearing would be easier for both of us.”
The smile disappeared.
“You think staying with me is difficult?”
“I think everything about you is difficult.”
“That’s fair.”
“But I’m still here.”
She carried her mug to the sink.
Dom watched her.
Then his phone rang.
The change in him was immediate.
He picked it up.
“Yeah.”
He listened.
His eyes sharpened.
“When?”
Another silence.
“Who else knows?”
Nema watched his face.
Something was wrong.
“Don’t touch anything,” Dom said.
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
He slowly stood.
“Leo.”
The enormous bodyguard entered moments later.
“Boss?”
“Tell them to bring the car around.”
Leo glanced toward the bandage beneath Dom’s shirt.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Dom stared at him.
Leo sighed.
“Worth trying.”
“What happened?” Nema asked again.
Dom buttoned his shirt.
“Tommy had a storage unit.”
Nema froze at the name.
Tommy Romano.
The man who had poisoned the coffee.
The man whose betrayal had started everything.
“One of my people found it this morning,” Dom continued.
“What was inside?”
“Documents.”
“What kind?”
“Financial records. Photographs. Copies of private communications.”
Dom picked up his coat.
“And a picture of you.”
Nema stopped breathing.
“What?”
“It was taken six months ago.”
The room went silent.
Nema felt something cold move through her.
“That’s impossible.”
Dom’s expression told her it was not.
“Six months ago,” she repeated.
She had not met Dom six months ago.
She had not spilled the coffee.
She had not known Tommy.
She had been nobody.
Just another waitress at Frank’s.
“Why would Tommy have a photograph of me?”
“That,” Dom said, “is exactly what I intend to find out.”
They returned to Chicago before noon.
Nema expected Dom to take her to the penthouse.
Instead, the convoy entered an underground garage beneath an office building downtown.
The elevator required fingerprints and a numerical code.
The top floor looked nothing like the criminal headquarters Nema had imagined.
No men in leather jackets.
No piles of money.
No weapons displayed on tables.
It looked like an expensive law firm.
Glass walls.
Dark wood.
Quiet men wearing suits.
Everyone stopped speaking when Dom entered.
Not dramatically.
Respectfully.
Fearfully.
Nema noticed.
Dom moved through the building like gravity.
People adjusted around him.
A gray-haired man approached.
“Boss.”
“Where is it?”
“Conference room.”
They entered.
A cardboard archive box sat on the table.
Inside were photographs.
Nema approached cautiously.
She saw Tommy entering restaurants.
Tommy meeting men.
Cars.
License plates.
Warehouses.
Then Dom removed one photograph.
He placed it in front of her.
Nema stared.
It was her.
She was leaving Frank’s Diner.
The photograph had clearly been taken from across the street.
The date printed in the corner was March 18.
Six months before the poisoned coffee.
Another photograph showed her carrying groceries.
Another showed her entering her apartment building.
Another showed her sitting beside a woman in a hospital waiting room.
Nema’s hands began trembling.
“That’s my mother.”
Dom looked at her.
“She died four months ago.”
His expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
Nema barely heard him.
She picked up another photograph.
Her mother.
Hospital entrance.
Nema pushing her wheelchair.
Another.
Frank’s.
Another.
Her apartment.
Someone had been watching her.
Long before she met Dom.
“Why?”
Nobody answered.
Leo opened a folder from the box.
“There’s more.”
He handed it to Dom.
Dom read the first page.
His face changed.
“What?”
Nema stepped closer.
“Dom?”
He looked at Leo.
“Leave us.”
Leo hesitated.
“Now.”
The room emptied.
Nema waited.
Dom remained silent.
“Tell me.”
He finally placed the paper on the table.
It was a medical invoice.
The name printed at the top belonged to her mother.
Elena Reyes.
The invoice showed a payment.
$186,000.
Nema stared.
Her mother had received experimental cancer treatment during the final year of her life.
Nema had believed a charity program paid for it.
The hospital had told them an anonymous foundation covered the costs.
“What does this have to do with Tommy?”
Dom turned the page.
A corporate name appeared.
Vasquez Community Foundation.
Nema slowly raised her eyes.
“Your foundation?”
“Yes.”
“You paid for my mother’s treatment?”
“No.”
“Your name is on the paper.”
“My organization funds hundreds of medical grants every year.”
Dom looked genuinely confused.
“I don’t select individual recipients.”
Nema turned another page.
There was an authorization signature.
Thomas Romano.
Tommy.
Nema stepped backward.
“No.”
Dom looked through the remaining documents.
The pieces were beginning to connect.
And he did not like what they were forming.
“Tommy approved your mother’s grant personally.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Nema’s breathing accelerated.
“Why was he watching me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he have pictures of me before I ever saw either of you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that!”
Her voice cracked across the conference room.
Dom went silent.
Nema pressed both hands against the table.
Her entire life suddenly felt contaminated.
The hospital.
Her mother’s final months.
Her job.
Her apartment.
Even Frank’s Diner.
Things she had believed were accidents might not have been accidents at all.
Dom approached.
Nema stepped away.
“Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
She looked at the photographs again.
One detail caught her attention.
In a picture taken outside the hospital, her mother was speaking to a man.
His face was partially turned away.
Nema picked up the photograph.
Her pulse changed.
“I know him.”
Dom moved closer.
“Who?”
“He visited my mother.”
“When?”
“Three weeks before she died.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he was an old friend.”
Nema stared at the photograph.
“I thought she knew him from before I was born.”
Dom took the picture.
His face became expressionless.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
Dom looked at her.
“Arthur Bianke.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Nema sat down.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she remembered something.
Something small.
Something she had dismissed during her mother’s final week.
Her mother had been heavily medicated.
Sometimes she confused names.
Sometimes she spoke about people who had been dead for years.
One night, Nema had been adjusting her blanket when Elena grabbed her wrist.
Her mother had looked terrified.
Don’t trust the man with the silver lighter.
At the time, Nema assumed she was delirious.
Nema slowly looked at Dom.
His silver lighter sat beside his phone.
Her blood went cold.
Dom noticed where she was looking.
“Nema?”
She stepped away from him.
“My mother knew you.”
Dom frowned.
“No.”
“She knew something about you.”
“What?”
Nema looked at the lighter.
Then at him.
“She told me not to trust the man with the silver lighter.”
For the first time since she had met Dominic Vasquez, she saw something that looked like genuine shock.
He picked up the lighter.
Turned it over.
There were initials engraved underneath.
D.V.
“This belonged to my father,” he said.
Nema stopped.
Dom’s voice became quieter.
“He gave it to me before he died.”
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
Nema looked at the photographs.
At Tommy.
At Bianke.
At her mother.
The war had not begun in Frank’s Diner.
It had begun years earlier.
And somehow, her mother had been part of it.
Dom looked toward the closed conference-room door.
Then back at Nema.
“The Bianke war isn’t over.”
Nema swallowed.
“No.”
May you like
Dom picked up the photograph of her mother.
“It may never have been about territory at all.”
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