Chapter 4: The Terms of Existence
Dominic was experiencing a bizarre cocktail of primal terror and shocking, undeniable intrigue. He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by manufactured toughness—men who talked loud and puffed out their chests.
But this woman? She was entirely authentic. She was a predator cloaked in an unassuming disguise.
“What do you want?” Dominic whispered, the arrogance completely bleeding out of him.
“I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Riley said, easing the blade back just a fraction of an inch, allowing him to take a shallow, shaky breath. “Your boys are going to walk out of that door, and you are going to sit in that chair in the corner. We are going to renegotiate the terms of my existence in this neighborhood.”
“And if I say no?” Dominic gasped.
“If you ever insult my weight or my business again,” Riley stated, her voice devoid of emotion, “they won’t even find your teeth. Nod, if you understand me.”
Dominic gave a slow, microscopic nod.
Riley smoothly stepped back, releasing him in a single, fluid motion. She kept the knife in her hand, relaxed but ready. Dominic pushed himself up off the table, gasping quietly as he rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at the tiny smear of his own blood on his fingertips, then looked at Riley.
She stood there, massive, unbothered, calmly wiping the blade on a white towel.
“Paulie. Vincent,” Dominic rasped, straightening his ruined charcoal suit jacket. “Wait for me in the car.”
“Boss, are you crazy? We ain’t leaving you,” Paulie started, stepping forward.
“Get out,” Dominic snapped, his authority returning, though his eyes never left Riley.
The two enforcers glared at the butcher, but eventually turned, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the heavy rain. The door clicked shut behind them. Dominic stood alone in the shop with the woman who had just brought him to his knees.
He expected to feel absolute rage. He expected his wounded pride to demand immediate, violent retribution. But as he looked at Riley Hayes wiping down her butcher block, a dangerous, twisted smile crept onto his face.
He didn’t want to kill her anymore. He wanted to know her.
Dominic slowly walked over to the corner of the shop, his expensive shoes crunching softly against the sawdust. He pulled up a heavy wooden chair and sat down.
“You have my attention, Miss Hayes,” Dominic finally said, raising his voice to be heard over the hum of the refrigerators. “You said we are going to renegotiate the terms of your existence. Let’s hear the terms.”
Riley stepped around the counter, pulling up a sturdy metal stool opposite him. When she sat, she leaned forward, resting her thick, powerful forearms on her knees.
“Total exemption,” Riley stated, her dark eyes locking onto his. “First, Hayes Prime Cuts is permanently off your collection ledger. No protection fees. No envelopes on the first of the month. I protect myself.”
“Done,” Dominic said, surprising himself with how fast he agreed. “What else?”
“The block’s immunity,” Riley continued. “The bakery next door, the mechanic shop across the alley, and the florist on the corner. They are under my umbrella now. You leave them alone. You don’t raise their rates.”
Dominic let out a low, raspy laugh, leaning back in his wooden chair. He crossed his legs, brushing a speck of sawdust from his trousers.
“You are asking for a lot of real estate, Riley,” Dominic warned. “You are asking me to look weak in front of my own crew. If a boss lets a civilian dictate the terms of a neighborhood, he doesn’t stay a boss for very long. Sharks smell blood.”
“Then you better learn how to swim faster,” Riley replied coldly. “Because if you refuse, I will personally guarantee that the police receive a very detailed, anonymous ledger of your uncle’s offshore accounts. I still have my father’s safety deposit boxes.”
Dominic’s breath hitched. She held all the cards, and she knew exactly how to play them. Beneath the frustration of being cornered, a deep, undeniable fascination was taking root in his chest.
“I can agree to your terms,” Dominic said slowly, his voice dropping an octave, becoming intimately quiet. “But if I am going to grant you the power of a protected capo in my territory, you are going to do something for me in return.”
“I am not a hitman, Castelli,” Riley said, narrowing her eyes. “I process beef and pork.”
“I don’t need a killer,” Dominic corrected, leaning forward, matching her posture. “I need a ghost.”
He looked at her, his dark eyes tracing the strong, determined line of her jaw.
“I need your father’s network,” Dominic explained. “The Irish syndicate, the O’Cannons—they are making moves in South Boston again. Their new boss, Declan Fitzpatrick, has been intercepting my shipments coming through the docks. Someone inside my own family is feeding him information.”
Riley remained silent, processing the weight of his words.
“Your father knew the O’Cannon family better than anyone,” Dominic pushed. “He knew their safe houses, their lieutenants, their communication methods. I need you to find out who the mole in my family is. You find the rat, and you get your block forever. You have my word.”
Riley stood up, her heavy boots thudding solidly against the floor. “I’ll ask around,” she said, her voice gruff. “But if I catch you or your men snooping around my property while I do this, all deals are off.”
“Understood,” Dominic whispered. He stood up, feeling a strange reluctance to leave. He had come here to destroy her, and instead, he was leaving with a partner, and a burning, undeniable attraction to a woman who could snap his neck if she chose to.
