Chapter 7 - The Hamptons Trap
The drive out to the Hamptons felt like a descent into a gilded underworld.
The black armored SUV cut through the dense coastal fog, its headlights slicing through the gloom as they turned onto a private, tree-lined estate road. High iron gates bearing the coiled viper crest of Victor Costa swung open automatically as their vehicle approached, a clear sign that they were expected.
In the back seat, Clara sat stiffly in a sleek, backless midnight-blue silk dress that Isabella had insisted on packing. Her left hand rested heavily on her lap, the Rossi ring flashing cold and brilliant under the dim interior lights.
"You don't have to walk through those doors," Dominic said for the fourth time since they crossed county lines. His hand was clenched into a tight fist resting on his knee, the black-and-gray tattoos stark against his skin. "We can turn around right now, flatten their perimeter guards, and take Costa out on our own terms."
"No," Clara said, turning her head to meet his fierce, uncompromising gaze. Her voice was steady, surprising even herself with its newfound strength. "If I run now, I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder wondering when a bullet has my name on it. My father ran for twenty-two years. I'm done running."
Dominic stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, a ghost of a proud, dangerous smile touched the corners of his mouth. He reached across the console, grabbed her small hand, and slid his fingers between hers, locking their grip so tight it ached.
"Then we walk in together," Dominic murmured. "And let God sort them out."
The SUV came to a smooth halt in front of a sprawling, neo-classical stone mansion overlooking the churning dark waters of the Atlantic. Floodlights washed over the grand marble staircase, where two armed guards in immaculate tuxedos stood waiting like statues.
As the heavy armored door swung open, the sharp salt air mixed with the scent of expensive cedar and impending violence.
They stepped out side by side. Dominic wore a custom black three-piece suit that fit him like armor, his dark hair swept back, looking every bit the ruthless mob king he was. Clara kept her chin high, her posture rigid, her hand firmly linked with his.
They didn't knock. The massive double oak doors swung open as they approached, revealing a grand ballroom lit by a massive crystal chandelier—an eerie, terrifying mirror image of the gala where her entire life had imploded three days ago.
Standing at the far end of the room, beside a roaring marble fireplace, was an older man with silver-streaked hair, sharp, predatory eyes, and a face carved from granite.
May you like
Victor Costa.
"Well, well," Victor said, his voice carrying smoothly across the empty ballroom, rich with chilling amusement. "The prodigal daughter returns home. And she brought a watchdog."
