Chapter 155: Chapter 155
One week later:
.....
Dominic sat at the dining table like a man dragged into a room he did not ask for. The cutlery glimmered under the chandelier, but he had no appetite for any of it.
His plate was untouched, his posture was loose but also rigid in its own right. It was a calm that was too sharp to mistake for comfort.
Across from him, Jim ate like he hadn’t seen food in days. He stuffed his mouth, which caused his jaw working like an animal’s own.
Oil ran slick against the edge of his lips. Every motion was loud, deliberate, and a mockery. He chewed and chewed, swallowed, and then spoke with the kind of mouth that didn’t know shame.
"Except for saving my grandchild, all you’ve done is humiliate me," he said, words muffled through meat. His knife screeched against the porcelain as he hacked another piece, shoving it between his teeth.
Dominic watched him. He didn’t watch his face, or his hands. He watched the rhythm of his chewing, the crude motion of his wrist cutting, stabbing, and lifting food into his mouth. His eyes were dead, and silent while he watched.
Jim wiped his mouth lazily, still chewing, and leaned forward. "I heard you’ve met my niece already. Viktoria." His grin split his greasy face. "Are you in love with her yet, hmm?" He swallowed, picked up his glass, drank, and slammed it down. "You would be wise not to love Russian women, you know."
He didn’t wait for an answer. He never does. That was Jim. He simply spoke and spoke, without a single care in the world.
He has never believed in the consequences that comes with words, or from words.
"Well, let’s not talk about Viktoria. That’s not why we’re here. Also," his voice dipped lower, and his tone twisted, "you better not fall in love with her. Fuck Grigor. Viktoria warms my bed for me."
There was a slight twist in Dominic’s expression. So slight, and so faint, you would miss it if you weren’t watching him breathe. But his face, otherwise, remained stone.
Jim smirked wider at the lack of reaction. His knife scraped the plate again, the metal shrieking. "Russian women know when to hold it, and most importantly, they know what to do with it... and when to let it go. Your cock, I mean. English women don’t know so much."
Dominic reached for the cigarette between his fingers. He placed it between his lips, and picked up the lighter.
Jim lifted a hand. "No." His voice softened, with mock-sincerity. "Due to our natural interest, let me do it." He stretched forward, his fat fingers striking the flame. He held it steady until Dominic’s cigarette burned. Smoke curled upward, and Dominic’s first inhale came slow, steady.
The silence dragged a moment. Then Jim leaned back, licking grease from his thumb. "So. You trust your family?"
Dominic exhaled smoke, his words finally breaking the stillness. "I have just my brother. And I trust him."
His reply was simple. It was just simple and flat, but it was enough to shift the air.
He took another drag, his eyes trained on the smoke curling toward the ceiling. "Let’s talk about trust then, shall we? You’re not a direct relative to Grigor. You were spared by his mother. She made his father take you in."
The glass in Jim’s hand shattered.
The sound was sharp. Sharp and sudden. Water and shards splattered across the table. His hand dripped blood immediately.
Dominic’s eyes lowered briefly, sparing the broken glass a glance. He exhaled a clean puff of smoke, dead-faced, like nothing happened.
Jim didn’t flinch. He grabbed a folded tablecloth, wrapped it around his bleeding hand, and grinned with teeth stained faintly by wine. "Careful, Dominic. You’re digging in old graves."
Dominic leaned back. His cigarette glowed faintly in the dark. His silence was louder than Jim’s voice.
"You currently stay in a donated house," Dominic said finally. His tone was calm, and flat, like a verdict passed down. "And you’re in debt. Both here... and in Italy. And elsewhere. I’ll pay you for what you’re about to do for me. This sort of work is not cheap."
Jim’s grin faltered. His eyes narrowed. "I don’t need your money. I just want Carlos dead. Don’t insult me, Dominic."
Dominic’s smoke curled upward again. He tapped the ash into the crystal tray, unbothered. "Do you understand?" he said, his voice slow, steady, like each word was chosen to weigh heavier than the last. "I’ll give you a down payment. For your future services."
Jim’s knuckles whitened beneath the cloth, blood seeping through. His jaw ticked. His chest rose with laughter that was hollow, forced, sharp. "You think you can buy me?"
Dominic didn’t blink. "No." He took in another drag of smoke, and let it out. "I think I already own you."
The silence that followed was heavy, and suffocating.
Jim leaned forward, his grin twitching like a dying flame. His bloodied hand left streaks across the table as he slammed his palm down. "Careful. Men who believe they own me don’t live long."
Dominic’s gaze finally rose. His eyes locked with Jim’s. His stare was sharp, merciless, and as calm as death. The smoke from his cigarette drifted between them, curling in the air.
"You consistently fail to understand your own limitations." Jim finally broke the short suffocating silence. "You’ve bitten a lot of hands, which shouldn’t be done. Don’t try to bite mine, Dominic. If you do, I won’t be Carlos, to do half finished works. I’ll make sure I watch Ronan and Celeste bled right before you, before I finally kill you."
Dominic stared him dead in the eyes, looking bored. He tapped the ash from his cigarette with the kind of ease men usually reserved for sunny afternoons, not death threats.
The silence stretched long enough for Jim’s words to rot in the air.
"You speak of Celeste again..." His gaze didn’t waver. "And I’ll bury your tongue in your own chest before your sentence ends."
Jim’s grin twitched, faltered, and then crept back, thinner this time. He leaned back in his chair, laughing under his breath, but his eyes never left Dominic’s. He spread his hands, blood still dripping through the cloth. "Always so poetic with your violence."
Dominic inhaled smoke, slow, steady, filling the silence with nothing but the curl of grey between them.
Jim chuckled, shaking his head like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or unsettled. He poured himself another glass of wine with his good hand, sloshing it carelessly onto the table. "You think you’re already holding the knife. But you forget, Dominic, I’ve slit more throats in the dark than you’ve shaken hands in the light." He raised his glass, toasting mockingly. "Shall we test whose shadow runs longer?"
Dominic leaned forward, just slightly, the ember of his cigarette glowing bright in the dim. His voice came quiet, but it was the kind of quiet that made the blood run cold.
"I don’t need shadows, Jim. Men like you..." He let the smoke out, slow, right across the table. "...die in the daylight just the same. So, be careful."