Chapter 3

Three days after his return, Dominic brought Serena to breakfast in the main dining room.

She appeared in the doorway clinging to his arm, wan and lovely, and the moment she saw me her lips parted in that rehearsed look of concern. "Elena—good morning. I hope I'm not intruding. Dom insisted I eat with everyone today."

I smiled pleasantly and gestured to the chair beside me. "Of course. Sit."

That afternoon, the first strike came.

I was reviewing household accounts in the study when Dominic burst in, his face a mask of barely controlled fury.

"What did you put in those pastries?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Serena's doubled over in pain. She hasn't eaten anything today except what your kitchen sent to her room this morning." He was advancing on me, his voice low and lethal in the way I imagined he spoke to men he was about to put in the ground. "If you touched her food—if you put something in it because you're jealous of one goddamn night—"

"Dominic." I stood slowly. "I didn't—"

He grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward him.

From behind him, Serena's housekeeper appeared in the doorway, breathless and theatrical. "Mr. Caruso—she's asking for you. She keeps saying the pain is in her stomach, and the only things she ate were Mrs. Caruso's pastries—"

His open palm connected with my cheekbone before I could speak.

The crack echoed off the study walls. My head snapped sideways. For three full seconds I couldn't see—just white light and a high ringing sound, and then the room swam back into focus and Dominic was staring at me with his hand still raised, his chest heaving.

"If anything happens to her," he said, very quietly, "I will make you wish you'd never been born."

He turned and strode out.

I stood alone in the study, my cheek throbbing, and pressed my palm flat against the mahogany desk until my fingers stopped trembling.

When I reached Serena's suite twenty minutes later—because I needed to see, needed to confirm—the scene was already winding down. The family physician had come and gone. Diagnosis: indigestion from overconsumption of rich food. Nothing more. Two antacid tablets and she'd be fine by evening.

She'd simply eaten too many pastries.

Serena was propped against her pillows, eyes red-rimmed, Dominic perched on the edge of her bed holding her hand. When she saw me in the doorway, she manufactured a tremulous smile. "Elena—I'm so sorry for the scare. I think I was just anxious. When my stomach started hurting, I panicked... I thought maybe..." She trailed off delicately.

Dominic didn't look at me. "She was frightened. Can you blame her? You've made it clear you don't want her here."

"I've done nothing of the sort."

"Your attitude alone is enough." He finally met my eyes. Cold. Dismissive. "She feels unwelcome. Fix it."

Nico appeared from behind the armchair—I hadn't seen him there. He ran at me full-tilt, both small hands shoving hard into my hip. I stumbled backward and my lower back cracked against the marble edge of the console table. Pain radiated up my spine like electricity.

"I hate you!" he shrieked. "Uncle Dom is ours—mine and Mama's! You're the bad one!"

Serena gathered him to her chest, tears spilling prettily. "Oh, baby, no—Elena, forgive him. He's just a child. He only wants a father so badly..."

I couldn't straighten fully. Mara was suddenly beside me, hand under my elbow, pulling me upright.

Dominic watched me struggle and his expression didn't change. "He's five years old, Elena. Don't be dramatic. He barely touched you."

"You need to fix your attitude. You're making them both miserable."

I looked at Nico, still glaring at me from the safety of his mother's arms.

"Don't worry, Nico," I said softly. "Your uncle is all yours. He always has been."

Dominic's eyes narrowed, but I was already turning away, letting Mara guide me out.

Behind us, Serena's muffled sobs resumed on cue.