Chapter 2 - The Eyes She Forgot to Hide
“On what?” Lydia repeated.
Dominic Rossi leaned back in the booth and studied her as if she were a document he already knew was forged.
“The disguise.”
Lydia widened her eyes behind the smeared lenses. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You rubbed onion on your wrists.”
“Maybe I enjoy natural perfume.”
“You bought those shoes this afternoon.”
Her foot froze beneath the table.
Dominic nodded toward the thick brown leather visible below her skirt. “The price sticker is still attached to the sole.”
Lydia resisted the urge to look.
“And the cardigan,” he continued, “is two sizes too large, but your blouse fits perfectly beneath it. Your hair is greasy at the top and clean near the ends. You were in a hurry.”
“I spent forty-seven minutes on this.”
The admission escaped before she could stop it.
Dominic’s smile appeared slowly.
It transformed his face in a way Lydia did not appreciate. He was still dangerous, still intimidating, but suddenly she understood why women might ignore every warning sign and follow him into a burning building.
“Forty-seven minutes,” he said. “That is impressive commitment.”
“I’m glad you’re entertained.”
“I’m curious.”
“About what?”
“Why a woman would work so hard to make herself invisible.”
Lydia reached for her wine, although she had promised herself she would not drink around him. “I wasn’t trying to be invisible. I was trying to be undesirable.”
“To Augustus.”
“To any Rossi.”
Something shifted in Dominic’s eyes.
It was not anger. Anger would have been easier.
Interest was far more dangerous.
The waiter returned with their meals, placing the ravioli in front of Lydia with the careful hands of a man transporting explosives. Dominic waited until he had disappeared before speaking again.
“Take off the glasses.”
“No.”
“They’re not prescription.”
“They’re emotionally supportive.”
“Take them off.”
“You’re not my boss.”
“Not yet.”
The words settled between them.
Lydia’s appetite vanished.
She put down her fork. “I’m not marrying your nephew.”
“Cousin.”
“I’m not marrying any member of your family.”
“No one asked you to.”
“My father said—”
“Your father says many things when he is frightened.”
Dominic lifted his knife and cut into the rare steak. A thin line of red spread across the white plate.
Lydia tried not to stare at it.
“What did my father promise you?” she asked.
“Nothing of value.”
“What did he offer?”
Dominic looked directly at her. “You.”
Her fingers tightened around the stem of the wineglass.
He continued before she could speak.
“I declined.”
“How generous.”
“I don’t trade in women.”
“You trade in broken kneecaps.”
“Only when inventory disagreements become repetitive.”
Lydia pushed her plate away. “I came here because my father owes your family two hundred thousand dollars. I fulfilled my part. I showed up. I assume you’ve had your fun, so tell me what happens next.”
Dominic wiped his knife with the edge of his napkin.
“Your father does not owe me two hundred thousand dollars.”
Relief hit her so quickly that she almost laughed.
Then she saw his expression.
“How much?”
“Four hundred and eighty-six thousand.”
The restaurant noise faded.
Lydia could still see people moving beyond the velvet curtain, but their voices became distant and warped.
“That’s impossible.”
“He borrowed from three separate games. He used two different names and placed markers against property he did not own.”
“What property?”
“Your apartment.”
Lydia stopped breathing.
“He can’t do that.”
“Legally? No.”
“I own that apartment.”
“I know.”
“My mother left it to me.”
“I know that too.”
She stared at him. “How do you know so much about me?”
Dominic’s gaze dropped briefly to her hands.
They were the only part of her she had not disguised. Her nails were short and clean. A faint ink stain marked the side of her middle finger. Her mother’s thin silver ring rested on her right hand.
“You work in forensic accounting,” Dominic said. “Senior analyst at Keane and Mercer. You specialize in finding money people worked very hard to hide.”
A chill moved through her.
“That information isn’t difficult to find.”
“No. But the disciplinary warning you received last year is.”
Lydia said nothing.
“You accused one of your firm’s largest clients of using a children’s charity to move stolen funds,” Dominic continued. “Your supervisors told you to revise the report. You refused.”
“The client settled.”
“The client had friends.”
“The evidence was clear.”
“And yet your firm buried it.”
Her voice sharpened. “What does this have to do with my father?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“Because I have missing money.”
Lydia laughed once. “Call the police.”
“I prefer professionals.”
“You mean professionals who can’t arrest you.”
“I mean professionals who are not afraid to follow numbers into unpleasant places.”
Dominic placed a small black folder on the table.
Lydia had not seen him bring it with him.
She did not touch it.
“What is that?”
“A proposal.”
“I already rejected marriage.”
“It is a job.”
“I have a job.”
“You have a desk, a title, and employers who punish you for doing the work they hired you to do.”
The accuracy of the statement irritated her more than an insult would have.
Dominic opened the folder.
Inside were copies of financial statements from the Rossi Family Foundation, a legitimate charitable organization Lydia recognized. The foundation funded neighborhood clinics, addiction programs, housing assistance, and scholarships across New York.
She had always assumed it existed to make the Rossi name look respectable.
Maybe it did.
But the documents were real.
She could tell that immediately.
Her eyes moved across the columns despite herself.
Payments had been divided between vendors. Administrative fees had risen without explanation. Several grants had been approved and canceled within the same quarter. The numbers were tidy enough to escape casual review but inconsistent enough to bother her.
“How much is missing?” she asked.
“Seven million that I know of.”
Lydia looked up. “Seven million dollars disappeared from your charity?”
“Over fourteen months.”
“And you didn’t notice?”
“My former accountant noticed.”
“What happened to him?”
“He retired.”
“Voluntarily?”
Dominic tilted his head.
Lydia closed the folder.
“No.”
“You have not heard the offer.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You identify the person taking the money, and I freeze your father’s debt.”
“Freeze?”
“No interest. No collection activity. No claim against your apartment.”
“And when I find your thief?”
“Your father’s debt disappears.”
Lydia searched his expression for the trap.
There was always a trap.
“What happens if I refuse?”
“Your father remains responsible for what he borrowed.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I do not threaten daughters to control fathers.”
“That sounded suspiciously specific.”
“It means your home is safe because the signature against it is fraudulent. Your father, however, made several promises using his own name.”
Her stomach twisted.
“What will you do to him?”
“That depends on whether he is merely a fool or something worse.”
Lydia looked toward the restaurant entrance.
Frank was weak. Frank was selfish. Frank had lied to her more times than she could count.
But he was still her father.
“You already think he’s involved in the missing money.”
“I think everyone is involved until the evidence tells me otherwise.”
“Including me?”
“Especially you.”
Her gaze snapped back to his.
Dominic’s eyes remained calm, almost unreadable.
Except Lydia noticed something beneath the calm.
He was watching her reaction with unusual care.
“You think my father used me to get close to your records?”
“I think your father suddenly accumulated nearly half a million dollars in gambling debt while money was disappearing from my foundation. I think he told you this dinner was with Augustus when Augustus has been unconscious for six days.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That is the question.”
Lydia reached for the folder again.
She hated herself for it.
She hated Dominic for knowing she would.
As she studied the first page, a loud crack sounded from the dining room.
The wineglass beside her exploded.
Dominic moved before Lydia understood what had happened.
He came across the table, one arm locking around her waist as he dragged her beneath the booth. The velvet curtain jerked sideways. Diners screamed. Plates shattered against the floor.
A second crack split the air.
Wood burst from the wall where Dominic’s head had been.
Gunshots.
The realization hit Lydia with sickening clarity.
Dominic pressed her against the floor, shielding her with his body. She smelled smoke, cedar, and expensive whiskey.
“Stay down,” he ordered.
“You think?”
His hand covered the back of her head as another bullet struck the booth.
Men in dark suits rushed through the restaurant. Someone shouted in Italian. The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Lydia heard running footsteps.
Then Dominic was gone.
She lifted her head.
“Dominic?”
A man burst through the curtain.
He was not one of the restaurant staff.
He wore a gray jacket, a black mask, and held a pistol pointed toward the floor.
When he saw Lydia, he raised it.
She grabbed the first object her hand found—the heavy silver ice bucket—and swung it with both arms.
Metal struck his wrist.
The gun discharged into the ceiling.
Lydia swung again, catching him across the side of the head. He stumbled, and she crawled toward the aisle.
A hand closed around her ankle.
She kicked backward.
Her orthopedic shoe connected with bone.
The man cursed.
Then Dominic appeared behind him.
He caught the attacker by the collar, slammed him against the table, and drove him to the floor. The violence was quick, controlled, and terrifyingly efficient.
Dominic took the gun.
“Who sent you?” he demanded.
The man smiled through blood.
Then his jaw moved strangely.
Dominic grabbed his face, but it was too late.
The attacker convulsed.
Lydia turned away.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“Poison capsule.”
“You say that like it’s normal.”
“It is not normal.”
Dominic crouched beside her.
A thin cut crossed his cheek. His shirt had torn near the shoulder, revealing more black ink and a narrow scar.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I was just shot at in an Italian restaurant. I think shaking is the traditional response.”
He examined her face, then her hands. His thumb brushed the ink stain on her finger.
For one suspended second, the chaos around them disappeared.
His gaze lifted to her glasses, which now hung crookedly from one ear.
The left lens had cracked.
Dominic carefully removed them.
Without the smeared glass between them, Lydia felt suddenly exposed.
His eyes settled on hers.
Her mother had called them unusual—green around the edges, amber near the center, changing color depending on the light. Lydia had always considered them too large for her face.
Dominic stared as though he had found something he had been searching for.
“There it is,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“The one thing you forgot to hide.”
Lydia’s throat tightened.
Before she could answer, a broad-shouldered man approached.
“Boss,” he said. “Back entrance is secure. Shooter on the roof got away. We found a second vehicle in the alley.”
Dominic stood, pulling Lydia up with him.
“Take her to the car.”
“I am not going anywhere with you.”
The broad-shouldered man looked at Dominic.
Dominic looked at Lydia.
“Someone knew where this meeting would happen,” he said. “Someone knew your name was on the reservation.”
“They were shooting at you.”
“The first bullet struck your glass.”
Lydia went still.
Dominic took his phone from his pocket and checked the screen.
His expression hardened.
“What is it?”
He turned the phone toward her.
A security image showed Frank Hayes walking through the entrance of an industrial warehouse in Queens.
The timestamp was from forty minutes earlier.
Beside him stood a man Lydia recognized from newspaper photographs.
Vincent Valenti.
Dominic Rossi’s most dangerous rival.
Her father was not being dragged.
He was not being threatened.
He was smiling.
Dominic slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“You asked what happens next,” he said.
May you like
Sirens began to rise in the distance.
“Next, Lydia, we find out why your father just sold us both.”
