Chapter 6 - THE ASHES OF THE PAST
The black smoke thickened rapidly, billowing out from beneath the heavy oak doors and rising toward the vaulted ceiling of the library.
"Help!" I screamed, banging my fists against the wood until my knuckles bruised. "Fire! Dominic!"
The heavy timber of the doors felt warm beneath my hands. The fire was raging right outside in the hallway, intentionally placed to trap me. Whoever had poisoned Mrs. Whitmore realized I was getting too close to the truth. Julian Thorne was tying up his final loose end.
I stumbled backward, coughing as the acrid smoke burned my throat. I pulled the collar of my uniform over my nose and mouth, my other arm wrapping protectively around my stomach.
"Grace, it's okay," I whispered to my unborn daughter, tears streaming down my face. "Mommy's going to get us out."
I ran toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate's snowy gardens. I grabbed a heavy brass globe from a side table and swung it with all my strength against the glass.
The brass bounced off with a dull thud. Bulletproof glass. Dominic’s paranoia had turned the mansion into an inescapable fortress.
The smoke was banking down, filling the upper half of the room in a dark, suffocating cloud. I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling toward the center of the room where the air was marginally clearer.
I sought refuge beneath Dominic’s massive mahogany desk. As I huddled underneath it, gasping for shallow breaths, my hand brushed against a strange, wooden groove on the underside of the central drawer.
It felt like a latch.
I pulled it. A hidden compartment dropped down, hitting my knee.
Inside the dusty recess lay a single, leather-bound journal. It was old, the leather cracked and worn from years of use. Embossed on the cover were the initials A.R.
Antonio Romano.
This wasn't a corporate ledger. This was his private diary.
My lungs were burning, my vision blurring at the edges, but I pulled the journal into my lap. I flipped it open to the last used page, dated nearly fourteen months ago—right before Antonio suffered his stroke.
The handwriting was messy, rushed, fueled by a terrible realization.
I found the missing money from the shipping trust. It wasn't Victoria. It wasn't Carlo. It was Julian. He's been bleeding the accounts dry for five years. But God forgive me, I finally understand why. I looked into Julian's background. Thorne isn't his real name. He is the son of Marcus Thorne, the union boss I ordered killed thirty years ago when we took the docks. The boy survived. He changed his name, went to law school on my dime, and embedded himself in my family. He doesn't just want my money. He wants to destroy my legacy. He wants Dominic in prison. He wants me dead. I have to warn Dominic before—
The entry ended mid-sentence.
That was the day Antonio had his stroke. Or rather, the day Julian poisoned him for the first time, trapping him in his own failing body before he could expose the truth. Julian had used Victoria’s petty thefts and Carlo’s blatant ambition as perfect smokescreens to hide his decades-long vendetta.
Suddenly, a thunderous crash shook the library.
The heavy oak doors splintered inward, groaning against the intense heat.
Through the roaring flames and thick black smoke, a massive silhouette appeared.
Dominic.
He had wrapped his expensive overcoat around his head to shield himself from the flames. He kicked the remaining debris of the door aside and charged into the burning room.
"Emily!" Dominic roared, his voice cracking from the smoke.
"Here!" I croaked, dragging myself out from beneath the desk, clutching the leather journal to my chest.
Dominic found me in the haze. He didn't hesitate. He stripped off his overcoat, wrapped it tightly around me and my belly, and scooped me into his arms.
"Hold your breath," he commanded.
He ran. He carried me directly through the blazing doorway, his own suit jacket catching sparks, shielding my body entirely with his own. We burst into the main foyer, where the estate's automated fire suppression system had finally triggered, raining freezing water down upon us.
We collapsed onto the wet marble floor, gasping for pure, clean air. Security guards swarmed around us with fire extinguishers, beating back the flames that had been set outside the library doors.
"Are you hurt?" Dominic panted, his face covered in soot, his hands frantically checking my arms and my stomach. "Did the baby get hurt?"
"We're okay," I coughed, clutching his sleeve. I looked up into his soot-stained face. "Dominic. It wasn't Victoria. It wasn't Carlo. It was Julian."
Dominic froze. "Julian? My lawyer?"
I shoved Antonio’s leather journal into Dominic’s hands. "Read the last page. Julian is the son of a man your father killed thirty years ago. He hired me to be the scapegoat. He poisoned Mrs. Whitmore when she realized what he was doing. He locked me in that room."
Dominic stared at his father’s handwriting, the rain from the sprinklers soaking the ancient pages. The ultimate betrayal washed over his face. The man he had trusted to protect his family legally had been slowly murdering them from the inside.
"Where is Julian?" Dominic roared, turning to Rocco.
Rocco was already checking his earpiece. His face paled. "Boss... the gate guards just reported Julian sped off the property five minutes ago during the fire alarm confusion."
"Where did he go?" Dominic demanded.
Rocco listened to his earpiece again. "He didn't run away, Boss. The hospital just called. Julian arrived at the private clinic ten minutes ago. He presented a court-ordered medical proxy document, signed by a judge he owns."
My blood ran cold. "What does that mean?"
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Dominic climbed to his feet, his gray eyes flashing with a terrifying, murderous rage.
"It means Julian has legal authority over my father's life," Dominic said, pulling his gun from his shoulder holster. "And he's ordering the doctors to pull the plug."
