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DOMINIC
Four years ago
Dominic had made a lot of mistakes growing up, but none of them could amount to this one. He stood in the master bedroom of John’s rental home, mouth ajar and body stiff as he stared at the body on the floor.
He’d shoved Brynn a little too roughly and she’d hit her head on the sharp, wooden corner of the dresser. She was face-down on the ground, and blood was pooling around her head. He started to bend down, flip her over, but didn’t want to touch the body.
Fuck! What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t just let her lay there and die. Why couldn’t she just sign the damn papers? Why did she have to make the situation so difficult?
He hurried out of the room to collect his phone from the den. It had twenty percent battery left. He hustled back up the stairs and was tempted to call the police, but then he remembered the NDA. This woman’s body was on the floor and if she woke up and remembered what’d happened, everything he’d worked for would be thrown in a bin.
He wracked his brain, searching for a solution. It didn’t hit him what to do until he thought about a conversation he’d had with Winton Hart. This was a year before Winton died. He’d called Dominic, demanded that he come to Houston so they could discuss his proposal to Jolene. He remembered being nervous as hell to be with her father one-on-one. He’d never sat with Winton alone. He had Jolene as a cushion, and she often covered for Dominic whenever Winton began interrogating him. But not this time. No, Winton wanted to speak to him alone.
He met him at an upscale soul-food restaurant and when he’d approached the table, Winton had ordered without him. A plate full of fried chicken, collard greens, mac and cheese, and a buttery roll of bread was in front of him, and Dominic couldn’t help thinking that was how the man would die—all that fatty food going down the hatch, clogging his arteries, increasing his cholesterol. He’d kept the comments to himself, of course, and took the seat across from Winton, requesting a water from the waitress who wasn’t too far away.
Winton looked Dominic from head to toe, then said, “I’m going to make this very clear to you, Dominic. I see you. I see you more than you see yourself.”
Dominic’s throat thickened. “I’m sorry. How do you mean, sir?” he asked, trying not to shrink under Winton’s glare.
“I looked into your history after Joey told me about your past. You told her your mother was in a psychiatric detention. You said she was unwell and so mentally ill that it wasn’t safe to visit her. Far from the truth, isn’t it?”
Dominic swallowed but held Winton’s gaze.
“Don’t answer that,” Winton muttered, waving his fork. “I know she’s not in one. She’s dead and the state handed her house over to you.”
Dominic blinked, stunned by his future father-in-law’s knowledge. A smile spread across Winton’s lips, and he pointed his greasy fork at Dominic as he said, “You aren’t the only person who does their research. You think I don’t know that you’re marrying my Joey for the money? I could smell it all over you when I met you.”
Dominic chose to feign ignorance. “I love her, Mr. Hart. I’m not understanding where this is coming from.”
“Please be aware, Dominic, that if you ever think about hurting Jolene in any way, your life will be ruined. Whether it’s by me, or someone who knows me.” Winton’s dark-brown eyes grew even darker as a frown creased his forehead. “She loves you and I don’t know why. But what I do know is that if you mess up, it will be handled.” He turned his head a fraction, peering over Dominic’s shoulder. Dominic looked with him, and spotted Boaz sitting in a booth. His hands were folded on the table, eyes hard on Dominic’s as he nodded his head. “I have people who take care of business for me,” Winton continued, grabbing Dominic’s attention again. “And if there is ever a need for me to make someone disappear, it will happen. And I won’t be to blame.” Winton glared at Dominic—into him, really—like he could see everything he was made of, his rapidly beating heart, organs, and the thoughts in his head. Then, just as quickly as he’d glowered, he straightened in his seat and said, “Try the sweet potato pie. It’s good.”
Winton’s words haunted Dominic. “. . . if there is ever a need for me to make someone disappear, it will happen. And I won’t be to blame.”
Boaz had ways of making people disappear. Houston wasn’t too far from New Orleans, and he still had Boaz’s number saved in his phone when he’d found the guy who’d stolen his wallet. He lifted the phone and called.
A few hours later, Dominic stopped pacing when he heard a car door close. He rushed toward the window, peered out, and spotted Boaz in all his dark-skinned massiveness glaring up at the house. Behind him was a black Chevy pickup truck. It was broad daylight out and Dominic worked hard to swallow, glad the house was surrounded by trees.
There was a knock at the door, and he hurried to open it. Boaz entered the house, moving right past him. He noticed he was wearing cloth booties over his boots and his hands were gloved. The brim of his hat was low on his forehead.
“Where is it?” Boaz asked.
It? It took a second for Dominic to realize he was referring to Brynn. “Oh. Master bedroom, up the stairs to the left.”
Boaz turned, heading for the stairs. Dominic followed him, and when they made it to the room, he watched Boaz flip Brynn’s body over and press two gloved fingers to her neck to check her pulse.
“Pulse is faint. She’s still alive.”
“What?” Dominic blanched. He thought surely Brynn was dead. She hadn’t moved an inch. He thought so—then again, he hadn’t really checked. He’d left her body in the bedroom and waited in the den until Boaz’s arrival. He assumed she was dead with all that blood on the wooden floor. The blood had rolled toward the rug, staining the oatmeal-colored carpet.
Something buzzed, and Dominic looked across the room, at Brynn’s purse on the side table, next to the NDA. Boaz glanced at Dominic before moving toward the purse. He pulled out the phone with his gloved hand and pressed a button to turn the phone off before stuffing it back in the purse.
“What the hell am I supposed to do if she’s alive?” Dominic asked, but Boaz ignored him and stood straight, lumbering out of the house. He stomped down the stairs and Dominic rushed after him, making sure to jump over the puddle of blood as he went. “Where are you going?” he asked.
Boaz didn’t answer and instead went to his truck, climbed inside, and started it up.
“Fuck.” Dominic was sure Boaz was leaving. Brynn wasn’t dead. This would be his problem. He watched as Boaz put the car in reverse and straightened up, so the back of his truck was facing the porch. He’d parked at an angle so that the front of the truck blocked the door. Then he climbed out, squeezed between the truck and one of the porch columns, and stepped inside again.
“Stay down here,” Boaz commanded, then he disappeared up the stairs. Dominic stood in the foyer, listening to the sound of heavy scraping and thumping. Was he moving furniture? He had the urge to go up and see what was happening but knew better than to make a move.
