Chapter 50 Dominic
Damien stepped into the club like a man walking into a battlefield he no longer claimed but still understood far too well.
The bass vibrated through the soles of his polished shoes, crawling up his spine and settling somewhere between his ribs. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and spilled liquor—an intoxicating mixture of desire and danger.
Bodies pressed together in pulsing rhythm, half-dressed women laughing too loudly, men shouting over the music with red eyes and loose morals.
The roulette tables glimmered under dim amber lights, chips scattered like fallen teeth across black felt.
Glasses clinked.
Cards slapped.
Coins spun.
It was chaos.
And it was familiar.
Two men dressed in black suits flanked Damien as he moved through the crowd. Their shoulders cut through the mass of people like blades through water.
The dancers barely noticed him, too lost in their own intoxication, but the gamblers did. Heads turned. Whispers followed.
That’s him.
Dominic’s cousin.
The prodigal one.
Damien ignored them all.
His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were hard, distant, focused only on the dark hallway that led to the back rooms of the club—the place reserved for owners, blood, and business.
The door was thick and guarded. One of the men knocked twice in a coded rhythm. It opened immediately.
Inside, the noise of the club dulled into a heavy hush.
The room was dim, lit only by a single hanging lamp above a round table. Shadows crawled along the walls. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung lazily in the air, turning the light into a golden haze.
A man already sat there waiting.
He leaned back in his chair like he owned the world.
Sunglasses covered his eyes despite the darkness. A thick cigarette rested between his lips as he inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, smoke curling upward in soft spirals. The scent of backwoods tobacco and aged liquor branded the air—Dominic’s signature.
A crystal decanter of amber liquid sat in the center of the table beside two short glasses. One was already half-empty in Dominic’s hand.
Damien took his seat across from him.
His presence changed the air immediately.
Where Dominic lounged, Damien was rigid. Where Dominic smirked, Damien scowled. His shoulders were squared, his spine straight, his hands resting flat on the table like he was prepared for a fight rather than a conversation.
Dominic chuckled when he felt Damien’s stare.
He reached up and slowly removed his sunglasses, revealing sharp, calculating eyes that mirrored Damien’s too closely for comfort.
“Well, look at you,” Dominic drawled, lifting his glass. “Still wearing that funeral face everywhere you go.”
Damien did not reply.
Dominic took a slow sip, savoring it. “You hate these meetings. Always have. And yet here you are. Without an appointment.”
Damien’s brow lifted slightly but he remained silent.
Dominic waved a hand. “Relax, cousin. I’m joking. You always were too serious.”
Damien’s voice finally came, low and controlled. “You said you knew why I was here.”
Dominic smiled wider. “Of course I do.”
He snapped his fingers.
A waitress appeared instantly. She wore a very short black pencil skirt and a tight white button-down shirt that struggled to contain her cleavage. Her lipstick was red, her eyes heavy with eyeliner, her smile professional and empty.
“Bring another glass,” Dominic said lazily. “For my cousin.”
She nodded and set the glass down in front of Damien.
Before she could turn away, Dominic slapped her ass.
She giggled nervously and walked off.
Damien’s eyes flicked to her face.
He recognized her.
But he said nothing.
Dominic poured the liquor himself, slow and deliberate, then slid the glass across the table.
Damien stared at it for a second before lifting it and taking a measured drink.
The burn was immediate.
The acceptance was silent.
The meeting had begun.
Dominic leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “My men have ensured that there is no lasting trace of Jasmine’s name or face left on any media outlet.”
Damien hummed quietly and nodded. “Good.”
“You’re welcome.”
Damien lifted his glass again. “Thank you.”
Dominic studied him carefully. “This little minx must be a diamond for you to risk owing me a favor.”
Damien didn’t answer.
He drank again instead.
Dominic tapped ash into his glass. “Would be a lot easier to protect her if we knew what we were protecting her from.”
Damien’s face cracked—just barely.
A flicker of something raw crossed his eyes.
Dominic noticed instantly.
“Don’t tell me,” he said slowly. “You don’t know.”
Silence.
Dominic’s laughter faded. “You really don’t"
Damien’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Dominic leaned back. “Then tell me why she’s different from the others. All the women you brought into this business. All the ones who came and went, why Jasmine Scott?”
Damien’s voice was steady. “She’s my wife.”
Dominic’s brows rose. He tapped his cigarette against the rim of his glass thoughtfully. “Your wife.”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
Dominic exhaled smoke. “Then you should find out about her past.”
“I won’t.”
“I can put my man on it—”
“She’ll tell me herself,” Damien cut in. “And only then will I tell her about mine."
Dominic smiled slowly. “Family supports family, Damien. Even when the prodigal son comes crawling back.”
Damien swirled the liquid in his glass. “I don’t live that life anymore.”
Dominic laughed. “You were the best at it. You don’t just walk away from blood.”
“You trained me,” Damien said quietly.
“My father trained us both,” Dominic corrected. “You were his shadow, you were his prodigy, you learnt quick. You shot first and hit right, your precision was immaculate”
"You brought in the best girls, under your hands the clubs excelled, our girls were in every elite circle, our birds chirped with Intel. You were the king of the underworld"
Damien looked away, his nostrils flaring. Memories flashed behind his eyes, he was young, a teenage boy when he begun his training with his uncle, Dominic's father.
Damien was to become the new boss, feared by all, known by few, truly loved by none. He saw, learnt, followed, repeated. He could not afford to be weak, the heir was not weak, could not be weak so he was not. Darcy hated that life, hated what her husband did, hated what the girls were brought into. She hated what her son was being turned into.
Darcy ensure he never forgot that life was poison, toxic. He would never return, if not for anyone for the sake of his mother.
He was only here as a favour to his tesoro, he swore to protect her and he would go to any lengths even if it meant dining with the devil
Damien stood. “This meeting is over.”
Dominic watched him leave, smiling. “It never really ends, cousin.”