Chapter 3 - The Price of a Lock of Hair
Dominic ended the call and slipped the phone back into his coat.
He walked back to where I stood beside the hostess podium. Removing his heavy black cashmere overcoat, he draped it gently across my shoulders, wrapping the warm, cedar-scented wool around my shivering frame until the severed strands of hair on my uniform were hidden from view.
He pulled the velvet ribbon from his breast pocket—the black silk ribbon I had worn that morning when I kissed him goodbye at our brownstone on Astor Street—and placed it into my palm.
"Mateo," Dominic commanded, his voice sharp and absolute.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Collect every single mobile device from every individual at Table Twelve," Dominic ordered. "Extract the video recordings, wipe their cloud backups, and deliver the hard drives to our forensics team at the terminal. If a single frame of my wife's humiliation appears on any network, the fathers of all six men will be served federal grand jury subpoenas for tax evasion before breakfast."
Julian Vance frantically pulled his iPhone from his jacket, throwing it onto the table along with his wallet and car keys. "Take it! Take everything! I didn't hold her, Mr. Vale! It was Preston! Preston bought the clippers at the drugstore on Michigan Avenue!"
Preston stared at his friend in disbelief, but the other four men were already emptying their pockets, begging Mateo’s operatives for mercy, their aristocratic arrogance completely pulverized into pathetic, sniveling terror.
Dominic did not look at them. He extended his right arm, tucking me securely against his side, his large hand resting firmly over my hip as he guided me toward the front doors.
As we crossed the threshold into the cool autumn night, Dennis scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, reaching for the hem of Dominic’s trousers.
"Mr. Vale! What about me? What am I supposed to do?"
Dominic stopped at the doorway, looking down at the weeping manager with the vast, quiet indifference of a winter sky.
"You have a broom in the kitchen, Dennis," Dominic said softly. "Sweep my wife’s hair off that floor. Every single strand. If there is a single hair left on that marble when the demolition crew arrives at dawn, you will never work in this city again."
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The armored Maybach was waiting under the glowing streetlamps of Rush Street.
Thomas, our longtime driver, held the rear door open with a solemn, reverent bow. As I stepped into the leather interior, the adrenaline that had held my spine rigid for twenty minutes finally broke. I leaned against Dominic’s broad chest, burying my face in his lapel, and wept while the city lights blurred into streaks of gold through the rain-streaked glass.
