Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dominic

T he heavy door creaked, a sound that seemed to groan with the weight of history and secrets as I stepped into my father's study. Shadows clung to the edges of the room, reluctant to dissipate even in the presence of the low-burning lamp on the desk. The familiar scent of aged leather mingled with the dense aroma of cigar smoke, wrapping around me like a cloak—comforting yet suffocating.

Father, a silhouette of power seated behind the imposing mahogany desk, did not lift his gaze immediately, allowing the silence to stretch taut between us. When at last he looked up, his eyes were hard as flint, his mouth set in a line that hinted at displeasure or perhaps challenge. The stern expression carved into his craggy features was one I knew all too well; it heralded a conversation that would brook no argument.

"Sit," his father commanded, the single word spoken with an authoritative rumble, echoing off the walls. The command was needless; I had no intention of doing anything but.

I moved across the room, each step measured and deliberate, the soles of my shoes muffled against the rich Persian rug. I settled into the chair opposite him, back straight, hands resting calmly on my knees. The leather creaked under my weight, a subtle reminder of the thousands of times I'd sat here before, receiving orders, absorbing lessons in control and dominance.

"Time is passing, Dominic," he began, his gravelly voice reverberating through the room. He folded his hands on the desk, papers and pens organized meticulously around us—a battlefield laid out with precision. "You've proven yourself in many aspects, but there's more to our empire than strength and fear."

My jaw tightened imperceptibly, but I remained silent, a statue waiting for the sculptor's chisel to reveal its next cut.

"Surely you don't think she can handle our world. She'll leave you within a year. She isn't cut out for this."

I stood, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor. "This is one choice you have no say in. So either accept it or don't, but Alexa is my wife. It's done."

Matteo busted in. "Boss, we've got company. Uninvited."

The old man behind the desk didn't so much as flinch, eyes never leaving the ledger before him as if the disruption was no more than a gust of wind rustling the pages. "Handle it, Dominic," he said. "Show them the cost of trespassing again."

I turned on my heel, each step purposeful as I departed from the sanctuary of strategy and into the night where the real game awaited. The corridors of the mansion whispered with the ghosts of past confrontations, and the familiar surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins.

"Lock it down," I ordered Matteo, my voice a hardened edge of command that echoed off the grandeur of the fortress. It was time to remind the world why the Gambino name evoked whispers of fear. Time to prove I was not just a son, but a sentinel forged in the fires of my father's world—a world where blood was currency and trust was a luxury we could seldom afford.

My pulse thrummed. With each step, the air grew dense, the darkness of the mansion's opulent halls a contrast to the blaze of determination igniting. I summoned my men with a gesture sharp as a blade, their presence materializing from the shadows like specters ready for war .

"Positions," I commanded, voice low and steady, betraying no hint of the storm raging in my chest. They fell into formation, an extension of my will, their footsteps a muted drumroll against the marble floor. The dull gleam of pistols and the soft shing of unsheathed knives accompanied their procession, a deadly orchestra tuning up for the night's grim concerto.

As we approached the perimeter where the intruders dared to breach, moonlight spilled across the landscape, painting everything in a ghostly hue. My eyes narrowed, my gaze scanning the grounds as I led my crew into the open. There was no hesitation in my stride—only the calculated movements of a predator closing in on its prey.

Suddenly, figures emerged from the darkness, their intentions as clear as the weapons they brandished. Metallic whispers sliced through the silence, and without a word, the crew sprang into action. I moved with lethal precision, every strike choreographed by instinct honed through years of survival.

The clash of metal rang out, a discordant melody against the serenity of the estate. I parried and lunged, my movements an echo of the ruthless legacy I was born to uphold. Grunts and shouts punctuated the night, the sound of bodies colliding with earthy thuds beneath the symphony of violence.

With each adversary that fell, my focus sharpened, my form a blur of controlled ferocity. I was the embodiment of my family's power, a force of nature cloaked in flesh and blood. And as steel met steel, as threats were silenced one by one, I proved once again why my name was synonymous with both fear and respect.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended. I stood amid the carnage, the once-bold intruders now reduced to lifeless husks scattered at my feet. The moon cast a pale light over the scene, illuminating the stark reality of what had transpired. This was their message, written not in words but in the silence of death—the cost of challenging the Gambino throne.

My chest heaved slightly, the only sign of exertion, as I surveyed the bodies with an impassive gaze. In this world, brutality was language, and tonight, we had spoken volumes. I knew the necessity of such displays; they were the currency of fear that kept my empire unchallenged, the chilling lullaby that lulled my enemies into a restless sleep.

"Dispose of them," I commanded, voice devoid of emotion, yet carrying the weight of absolute authority. My men nodded, moving to obey without question.

The metallic tang of blood clung to me as I got into my SUV and raced home. I emerged into the sprawling expanse of the house, its opulent tranquility a stark contrast to the night's earlier violence. With each step across the cool marble floor, the adrenaline that had surged through my veins began to ebb, leaving in its wake a tide of satisfaction mingled with an undeniable weariness.

I peeled away the remnants of battle, the fabric of my shirt stiff with crimson stains. The garments fell to the floor in a heap of soiled memories, each drop a testament to the brutal necessities of my world. Standing bare-chested, I felt the weight of my actions press against me, invisible burdens borne of choices that carved lines of consequence deep into the fabric of my soul.