Chapter 3 - The Offer on the Table
The phone line crackled with a sudden, tense silence on the other end. Dominic didn't wait for a response; he calmly pressed the disconnect button, tossed the expensive smartphone onto the glass display table as if it were worthless trash, and turned his attention back to Nora.
She was still huddled against the windowpane, her arms wrapped around her knees beneath the heavy gray wool coat, trembling violently. The thought of Declan—his unpredictable temper, his heavy fists, the cold cruelty in his eyes when he cornered her in the kitchen—paralyzed her mind.
“He’s going to come,” Nora whispered into her knees, her voice muffled and shaking. “You don't know him, Mr. Russo. He doesn't care about warnings. When he drinks, he’s unstoppable. He’ll find me at the bus station, he’ll find me at the shelter, he’ll find me anywhere in New England.”
Dominic walked over, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the polished marble. He didn't tower over her with intimidation; instead, to the absolute shock of his two bodyguards standing near the doors, the feared underworld king knelt down on one knee right beside her on the cold floor.
“Look at me, Nora,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady register that cut straight through her panic.
She slowly raised her head, her eyes red-rimmed and swimming with unshed tears.
“Declan Shaw is a coward,” Dominic said firmly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “Cowards only prey on people they think have no one to protect them. The moment a coward realizes facing his target means facing me, he becomes very small, very quiet, and very eager to run away. He won't come here. And he won't look for you at any bus station in Boston.”
“How can you be so sure?” she choked out.
“Because by the time I finish making a few phone calls tonight, Declan’s bank accounts will be frozen, his apartment lease will be legally terminated, and every business associate he owes money to will be standing outside his door asking for immediate repayment with interest,” Dominic said calmly, a faint, cold edge of humor in his voice. “A man running for his life from his creditors doesn't have time to chase a runaway girlfriend.”
Nora stared at him, bewildered by the casual, terrifying efficiency with which he dismantled a human being's entire existence in a single sentence. “Why are you doing this?” she asked quietly. “You don't even know me. I’m just a catering waitress who dropped a tray.”
Dominic looked toward the corner of the ballroom where little Leo was now quietly playing with his wooden airplane, supervised by a female nanny who had hurried back inside. A softer, almost imperceptible shadow crossed Dominic’s hard features before he looked back at Nora.
“You saved my son’s face from being slashed by broken glass,” Dominic said simply. “In my world, debts are paid in full. You kept him safe when everyone else was too busy drinking champagne and networking. That makes you under my protection now.”
“I don't want protection, Mr. Russo,” Nora said, pulling the coat tighter around her bruised body. “I want independence. I want to work, earn my own money, and live somewhere where nobody can touch me.”
“And you can do that,” Dominic replied, standing up and extending a large, strong hand toward her. “Starting tomorrow. But tonight, you aren't going to a bus station locker to sleep on a bench or catch a freezing bus north. You’re coming with me.”
Nora stared at his hand. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to reject the help of a man whose name was whispered in fear across the entire eastern seaboard. But as she looked at her own bruised, battered arm poking out of the frayed sleeve, she realized the bitter truth: she had nowhere else to go. Her backpack was miles away, her pockets held less than twenty dollars in loose cash, and the winter storm outside was turning into a full-scale blizzard.
Slowly, hesitantly, she placed her small, cold hand in his palm.
Dominic’s grip was warm, firm, and unyielding. He pulled her gently to her feet, steadying her when her bruised ribs protested with a sharp spike of pain.
“Gary,” Dominic called out without turning around, his voice echoing through the grand hall.
The manager scurried back into the room like a frightened mouse. “Yes, Mr. Russo? Anything! Name it!”
“Pay Ms. Hayes her full night’s wage, plus a five-thousand-dollar bonus for her exemplary service tonight,” Dominic instructed coldly. “Then call her landlord at whatever miserable apartment she was renting from, terminate her lease, pack up whatever meager belongings she has left in that apartment, and have my security team deliver them to my Beacon Hill residence by morning.”
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Gary’s jaw dropped so low it nearly hit his chest. He blinked rapidly, looking from Dominic to Nora as if they had suddenly grown second heads. “Th-five thousand dollars? And her apartment... yes, sir! Right away, Mr. Russo! Consider it done!”
“Come, Nora,” Dominic said, guiding her gently toward a private side exit where a heated black town car waited idling against the blinding white snow. “Let’s get you out of that coat.”
