Chapter 7 - The Irish Arrival
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The pressure within the estate compounded exponentially three days later when a convoy of armored black SUVs rolled through the front gates.
Declan O'Rourke, the undisputed boss of the Irish syndicate, had arrived early.
He was a terrifyingly shrewd man in his late fifties, with cold blue eyes and a reputation for unparalleled brutality. He controlled the largest illegal weapons distribution network on the East Coast. If Dominic secured O'Rourke’s guns, the Petrovs would be slaughtered within a week.
Charlene was assigned to serve lunch in the formal dining room. The air was thick with cigar smoke and dangerous tension. Dominic sat at the head of the table, perfectly composed, while O'Rourke ate heartily across from him.
“You’ve got a beautiful fortress here, Hamilton,” O'Rourke chuckled, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “But walls don't win wars. Petrov has numbers. And he has the ear of the state legislature.”
“Petrov has thugs, Declan,” Dominic replied smoothly, sipping his espresso. “I have strategy. And with your supply line, I will have overwhelming firepower. The Senator’s political cover is simply a temporary convenience until the streets are entirely under my control.”
Charlene approached the table, keeping her head bowed, carrying a heavy silver pitcher of ice water. Her back screamed in agony, the baby resting heavily against her spine.
As she leaned over to refill O'Rourke’s glass, her swollen belly inadvertently brushed against the edge of the mahogany table. She let out a small, involuntary gasp of pain, steadying herself quickly.
O'Rourke stopped talking. His pale blue eyes locked onto Charlene, sweeping over her gray apron and heavily pregnant figure.
“Well now,” O'Rourke mused, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his face. He looked at Dominic. “I see you run a very progressive household, Hamilton. Keeping a swollen, knocked-up maid on the floor. Most men would have tossed her into the street the second she started showing. Ruins the aesthetics of a fine dining experience, don't you think?”
The temperature in the dining room instantly plummeted to absolute zero.
Charlene froze, clutching the heavy pitcher, terrified to move.
Dominic did not speak immediately. His hands, resting on the table, slowly curled into massive, white-knuckled fists. The terrifying, murderous aura radiating from him was so intense that even Vincent, standing by the door, instinctively reached for his concealed weapon.
“She works hard, Declan,” Dominic finally whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, lethal suppression that promised unimaginable violence. “And in my house, we respect loyalty over aesthetics.”
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O'Rourke raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing he had struck a nerve, but unsure why a mafia boss cared so deeply about a servant.
“Dismissed,” Dominic ordered Charlene, his eyes burning into hers with a silent plea to leave the room before he slaughtered the Irish boss and ruined everything.
