Chapter 4 - The Gunsmith's Broken FingerBy 4:30 AM, the interrogation in the lower sub-basement had yielded every encrypted operational channel used by Harold Sterling’s private military contractors.
Gregory Vance, terrified of being fed into the industrial waste incinerator, had surrendered the radio encryption keys, the cellular IMEI numbers of the lead tactical coordinators, and the exact coordinates of the safehouse where the Sterling family had stashed their private extraction helicopter.
Dominic sat behind the metal desk in the subterranean armory, reviewing the intercepted communications logs on a secure tablet.
I stood beside the workbench, holding an ice pack against my splinted left wrist, watching his scarred fingers dance across the touchscreen with terrifying, calculated speed.
“The lead contractor is a man named Viktor Stone,” Dominic said, showing me a dossier photograph. “Former French Foreign Legion. He was paid two million dollars upfront through an offshore bank in Panama.”
“Will they suspect that Victoria has been compromised?” I asked, shivering slightly in the cool air of the bunker.
“Victoria’s phone is still transmitting its scheduled telemetry pulses,” Dominic explained, his voice cold and steady. “Every thirty minutes, her device sends an automated ping to her father’s command post indicating that the mark is asleep and the schedule remains intact. Harold Sterling believes his daughter is currently resting in the master bedroom, waiting to put on her bridal gown.”
He looked up from the screen, his gaze locking onto mine.
“You haven't slept in twenty-four hours, Sylvie.”
“I can't sleep, Mr. Cassel,” I confessed honestly. “Every time I close my eyes, I hear that steel door slamming onto my knuckles. I hear Victoria laughing about the canyon.”
Dominic stood up, walking around the table until he was standing inches from me.
He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently taking the ice pack from my uninjured hand, setting it aside on the metal bench.
Then, with breathtaking gentleness, he lifted my splinted left arm, supporting my forearm against his broad chest, his thumb lightly caressing the uninjured skin of my palm.
“The fear will pass, Sylvie,” he murmured, his deep baritone rumbling against my skin. “The pain will heal. But the woman who stood unbroken in my dining room tonight will never have to lower her head in this city again.”
My breath caught in my throat. The proximity of his massive frame, the clean scent of cedar and gunpowder radiating from his skin, sent a dizzying jolt of electricity through my exhausted veins.
“Why are you keeping me beside you, Dominic?” I whispered, daring to speak his first name aloud for the first time. “I’m a housekeeping maid. I don't belong in war rooms with syndicate bosses.”
Dominic’s gray eyes softened, revealing a depth of profound, unyielding emotion that stripped away every ounce of his terrifying reputation.
“For ten years, Sylvie, I have lived in a palace surrounded by liars, sycophants, and traitors,” he said softly. “Men who swear blood oaths to my face while calculating how much my corpse is worth to the highest bidder. And then you walked into my banquet hall with shattered bones, bleeding under an apron, refusing to trade your soul for a paycheck.”
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He leaned down until his breath stirred the loose hair at my temple.
“You are the only person who has entered this fortress in a decade who didn't come to steal my blood. And tomorrow afternoon, when the smoke clears in the canyon, you will stand beside me as the true Donna of this empire.”
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