Chapter 4 - Under His Roof
The safe house was not a bunker; it was a sprawling, fortified fortress hidden deep within the forested hills of upstate New York, surrounded by three miles of private woodland, razor wire, and motion-activated surveillance.
They arrived as midnight fell. The rain had ceased, replaced by a bitter, biting cold that turned their breath to mist.
Dominic led Gemma through the massive double doors of the estate. The interior was warm, smelling of cedar logs burning in an enormous stone fireplace, old leather-bound books, and aged bourbon. It was the ancestral retreat of the Falcone family—a place where bosses went to ground during blood feuds.
Gemma was exhausted, her nerves frayed to the point of snapping. The adrenaline that had kept her upright through the explosion, the high-speed convoy evacuation, and the tactical ambush on the highway had finally drained away, leaving her limbs feeling like lead.
She sank into a deep leather armchair before the hearth, her head spinning.
Dominic walked into the adjacent room, returned with a first-aid kit and two glasses of amber liquid, and knelt directly in front of her.
He didn’t pour a drink for himself. He placed the heavy crystal tumbler into her hands. “Drink it. It will stop the shaking.”
Gemma took a sip. The scotch burned like fire down her throat, but the warmth settled the violent tremors in her fingers. She watched Dominic as he opened the metal first-aid box. His tailored suit was ruined; he had discarded his jacket and tie, unbuttoning his collar. The cut on his temple had dried into a dark crust of blood, and there was a deep, angry bruise forming along his right shoulder where he had slammed against the marble desk to protect her.
“Let me do that,” Gemma whispered, setting the glass down.
Dominic paused, a cotton swab soaked in antiseptic in his hand. “You don’t have to.”
“You took a concussion blast for me, Mr. Falcone. The least I can do is clean the cut you got doing it.”
She didn’t wait for his permission. She slid off the chair and onto her knees on the thick rug, bringing herself level with him.
Dominic went completely still.
Gemma took the antiseptic swab from his hand. Her fingers brushed his, and an electric shock seemed to jump between them, causing his pupils to dilate. Gently, her left hand came up to rest against his jawline—his skin was rough with evening stubble, his jaw clenched tight. With meticulous care, she began dabbing at the wound on his temple.
Dominic did not flinch from the sting. His gray eyes were locked onto her face, watching the concentration in her dark eyes, the way her lower lip was caught slightly between her teeth.
“You’re too good for this world, Gemma,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost drowned out by the crackling fire.
“I’m an accountant, Dominic,” she replied softly, focusing on the wound to avoid drowning in his gaze. “I work with debits and credits. It’s balanced. It makes sense.”
“Nothing in my world is balanced,” he said. “It is only taken, or bled for.”
“Then why didn't you let me fall?” she asked, her hand dropping from his temple to rest against his chest, right over his heart. She could feel the steady, powerful rhythm beneath the black fabric. “Last night in the boardroom… you let a room full of violent men think you had a weakness. Why didn't you push me off your shoulder?”
Dominic’s hand rose, catching her wrist again—not to pull her away, but to press her palm more firmly against his chest.
“Because for forty-five minutes,” Dominic said, his gaze burning into hers with a raw, terrifying honesty, “I wasn't a monster keeping an empire from burning. I was just a man keeping a woman safe while she rested. I haven't felt that kind of peace in fifteen years.”
Gemma’s breath caught in her throat. The distance between them shrank to inches. She could see the tiny gold flecks in his slate-gray eyes, the slight curve of his lips. The professional boundary they had maintained for twenty-four months dissolved in the heat of the hearth fire.
She didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned forward, drawn by a gravity she could no longer resist.
Dominic’s fingers slid up from her wrist, tracing the soft curve of her jaw, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “If you stay with me, Gemma, they will target you. Sal. The Morettis. The feds. You will never have a quiet life again.”
“I haven't had a quiet life since I realized you were letting me manage three billion dollars in dark capital,” she whispered back, a faint, defiant smile touching her lips. “I don't want quiet, Dominic. I want to survive. With you.”
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Dominic let out a low groan—half surrender, half triumph—and closed the remaining distance, his lips crashing down on hers with a fierce, hungry intensity that stole every thought from her mind.
***
