Chapter 3 - THE WATCH ON THE FLOOR
“Nobody moves!” Dominic roared, using the ten-year-old boy as a human shield.
The engagement dinner erupted into chaos. Guests scrambled backward, overturning chairs and shattering crystal plates.
I stood frozen near the serving cart.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I was just a housekeeper. I served the drinks. I cleaned the marble floors.
But I was standing exactly two feet behind Dominic.
“Let my son go!” Rachel screamed, trying to lunge forward. Two of Luca’s guards held her back so she wouldn't get shot.
“Lower your weapons, Luca,” Dominic ordered, pressing the barrel harder against Ben’s temple. “Or Michael’s kid joins him tonight.”
Luca’s dark eyes were terrifying. He slowly raised a hand, signaling his men to lower their guns.
“You’re a dead man, Dominic,” Luca said calmly. “You won't make it out of Chicago.”
“I’ll make it just fine,” Dominic sneered. He began backing toward the French doors.
As he stepped backward, his heel caught the edge of the heavy Persian rug.
He stumbled. Just for a fraction of a second.
But as he jerked his arm to keep his balance, something metallic slipped from his wrist and clattered onto the marble floor.
It rolled directly to the toe of my black work shoe.
I looked down.
It was a heavy, custom-made platinum watch.
But the glass face was entirely shattered, and the metal was deeply scorched, as if it had been through a violent fire.
I knew that watch.
I had seen a photograph of it on Rachel’s nightstand every morning when I made her bed.
Answer one: Dominic didn't just order the hit. He was physically at the scene of the fiery car crash that killed Michael. He took the watch off Michael’s dying body as a trophy.
I didn't think. I just reacted.
“You took his watch,” I said out loud.
Dominic froze. He snapped his head toward me.
“Shut up, you stupid maid,” he hissed.
“That’s Michael’s watch,” I said, kicking the scorched platinum timepiece across the floor toward Luca. “He took it from the crash.”
Rachel let out a sound of pure agony.
Luca looked at the scorched watch, then up at Dominic. The betrayal in his eyes morphed into something completely feral.
In that split second of distraction, Ben realized the gun wasn't pressed against his head anymore.
The boy dropped his weight, slipping out of his oversized suit jacket, and crawled frantically toward me.
I grabbed Ben’s shirt, yanking him hard behind the serving cart, throwing my own body over him.
Gunfire erupted.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed dining room. Plaster exploded from the walls.
When the shooting stopped seconds later, I opened my eyes.
Dominic’s men had burst through the French doors to lay down cover fire.
Dominic was gone.
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And so was Vanessa.
TITLE: THE BLOOD ON THE TICKET
