Chapter 2
Dominic tried to stand.
He slipped on champagne and ice, one hand gripping the broken display case, his face twisted with humiliation.
“Uncle Rocco,” he said quickly. “You don’t understand what you saw.”
I looked at Maeve.
She still had not risen from the floor.
That told me more than Dominic’s words ever could.
People who expect kindness stand.
People who expect another blow stay low.
I crouched in front of her.
“Can you stand?”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
They were green.
Exhausted.
Too proud to beg.
“Yes,” she whispered.
But when she tried, her knees shook.
I held out my hand.
She hesitated before taking it.
That hesitation cut deep.
My father built this club so people would feel safe asking for help.
Dominic had turned it into a room where a woman feared an open hand.
I helped her to her feet.
Behind me, Dominic wiped champagne from his jacket.
“She’s manipulating you,” he snapped. “She’s always doing this. Crying, lying, playing poor.”
Maeve flinched.
I turned my head.
Dominic shut his mouth.
Good.
At least fear still worked where decency failed.
I looked at the staff gathered near the bar.
Servers.
Cleaners.
Kitchen runners.
Security guards who suddenly found the floor fascinating.
“How many of you have paid Dominic to keep your jobs?”
No one answered.
Dominic laughed nervously.
“This is ridiculous.”
I did not raise my voice.
“How many?”
A young busboy stepped forward first.
He could not have been more than nineteen.
His name tag said Theo.
“He calls them loyalty fees.”
Dominic spun on him.
“You little—”
I moved one step.
Dominic stopped.
Theo swallowed.
“If we don’t pay, we get bad shifts or he says we stole something.”
A woman near the coat check spoke next.
“He takes tips from private events.”
Another voice.
“He charges us for broken plates that were already cracked.”
Another.
“He makes the new girls serve VIP rooms alone.”
Maeve’s hand tightened around the coin.
I felt rage crawl up my spine.
Dominic’s face reddened.
“They’re lying because they hate authority.”
“No,” I said. “They hate being robbed.”
He pointed at Maeve.
“She started this. She’s been trouble since the day I hired her.”
“You didn’t hire her.”
He blinked.
“I reviewed every employee file before I came back,” I said. “Maeve was hired by Mrs. Bell from hospitality.”
His jaw clenched.
“I approved her final placement.”
“No, you moved her to private dining because Mr. Halverson requested her twice.”
The room went still.
Maeve went pale.
Dominic’s eyes flickered.
There it was.
Not guilt.
Calculation.
I looked at my head of security, Vince, standing by the door.
He was supposed to be watching the room.
Instead, he was watching Dominic.
That also told me something.
“Vince,” I said.
He stiffened.
“Sir.”
“Lock the doors.”
His face changed.
“Mr. Castellano, perhaps we should—”
“Lock. The. Doors.”
He moved.
Too slowly.
My own driver, Santino, stepped from the hallway and did it for him.
Dominic saw him and swallowed.
Santino had been with my family for thirty years.
He did not wear a badge.
He did not need one.
I looked at the staff again.
“No one leaves until I know what happened in my house.”
Dominic forced a laugh.
“You’re making a scene.”
“No. You made one. I’m cleaning it.”
Maeve whispered, “Please don’t make them talk if they’re scared.”
I looked at her.
Even now, humiliated and hurt, she was worried about the others.
“What are they scared of?”
Her eyes moved to Dominic.
Then to Vince.
Then away.
I understood.
My security team had not failed to notice abuse.
They had protected it.
I walked to Dominic and ripped the brass badge from his chest.
The pin tore through his suit.
He hissed.
I held the badge up.
“Who made this?”
Dominic’s mouth tightened.
“It’s official.”
“Not my question.”
He looked at Santino.
Santino did not move.
Dominic finally said, “Your sister.”
The room went cold.
My sister.
Francesca.
Dominic’s mother.
My only living sibling.
I stared at him.
“Francesca gave you authority over my club?”
“She said it was time I had a real place in the family.”
“She owns nothing here.”
“She’s a Castellano.”
“So are you,” I said. “And yet here we are.”
Dominic’s eyes filled with hate.
“You always looked at me like I was useless.”
“I looked at you like a boy who needed guidance.”
“You gave me scraps.”
“I gave you a chance.”
“You gave me a title with no power.”
“And you used fake power to crush people weaker than you.”
His face twisted.
“They’re staff.”
I hit him again.
Not hard enough to break bone.
Hard enough to end the sentence.
He staggered back, breathing hard.
Santino stepped closer, but I lifted one hand.
“I’m done with my fists.”
Maeve watched me carefully.
I saw fear in her eyes now too.
Not of Dominic.
Of me.
That stopped me more effectively than any guard could.
I took one slow breath.
Then another.
My father’s voice returned in my memory.
Power is what people feel safe enough to ask from you.
I turned to Maeve.
“I apologize.”
She blinked.
“For what?”
“For making this room more frightening.”
Dominic laughed under his breath.
I ignored him.
Maeve’s eyes filled.
No one had apologized to her here.
I could see that.
I looked at Santino.
“Bring every payroll record, shift assignment, complaint file, and security log from the last three months.”
Santino nodded.
“Already started.”
I looked at Vince.
“Hand over your weapon and keys.”
Vince’s face drained.
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
Dominic snapped, “You can’t treat him like a criminal.”
I looked at Vince.
“He can decide if he wants to be treated like a witness or one.”
Vince slowly removed his keys and sidearm.
Santino took both.
Then Maeve spoke.
Her voice was soft.
“There’s a ledger.”
Dominic’s head whipped toward her.
“Shut up.”
She flinched but kept going.
“In his office. Behind the wine inventory panel.”
Dominic lunged toward her.
Santino caught him by the back of the collar and slammed him against the wall.
“Careful,” Santino said quietly. “I’ve liked you less since birth.”
I walked toward Dominic’s office.
Maeve followed two steps, then stopped.
“You don’t have to come,” I said.
“Yes, I do.”
Her voice shook.
But she came.
Inside the office, the walls were covered with photographs of famous guests and framed menus from charity nights.
My father’s portrait hung behind the desk.
Dominic had placed his own chair beneath it.
Like a throne.
Maeve pointed to the wine inventory shelf.
“There.”
I moved the panel.
A black notebook fell out.
Inside were names.
Amounts.
Dates.
Payments marked in initials.
M.C. - 200.
T.R. - 150.
J.B. - 400.
Beside Maeve’s name, Dominic had written:
Owes 87. Last coin taken. Son medication leverage works.
My vision darkened.
Maeve made a small sound and covered her mouth.
I closed the ledger.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Because if I moved too fast, I would go back into the lounge and forget my promise about my fists.
Then my phone rang.
Francesca.
My sister’s name lit the screen.
I answered.
Before I could speak, she snapped, “Tell me you did not lay hands on my son.”
I looked through the office glass at Dominic, soaked in champagne and shaking with fear.
Then I looked at Maeve, still clutching her last coin like it was proof she existed.
“Francesca,” I said, “you should come to the club.”
May you like
“Why?”
“Because your son just confessed your name.”
