Chapter 65 65

Chapter 65 65
DOMINIC'S POV

In the car, I said nothing. The silence between us tightened like a wire about to snap. My anger grew with each block, each red light, each second that passed. I could feel it writhing in my chest, hot and brutal, demanding release.

But I waited. Control was everything. Swearing at them now, with the driver in the car, would be a show of weakness. And I didn't do weakness.

I did not help her out when we got to the mansion. Didn't touch her. Simply walked away and assumed she’d follow like that submissive wife act she was putting on.

I went directly to my office inside. She followed, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. Every time there was a click it felt like the clock was counting down.

I kept the door open until she had climbed through, and then turned the key to secure our retreat. She started as she heard the lock click.

Good.

"Take a stool," I said, heading to the bar.

"Dominic, I can explain—"

"Sit. Down."

She took a seat, sitting on the edge of the leather chair as if she might need to bolt at any point. Her hands knotted awkwardly in her lap, the nervous tell that she just couldn’t shake no matter how much coaching she received.

“You saw Morrison,” I said, and poured myself scotch. “And you lied to me about it.”

"I didn't lie. I just didn't mention it."

I looked up at her, holding my glass. "That's the definition of lying."

She parted her lips to argue and then shut her mouth. Smart. Facts didn't matter to me at that point.

I took a drink and let the scotch burn all the way down. I needed it. Wanted something to cut the edge in case I did something I would regret. Or might not regret. That was the trouble with Vivian. She left me in a state of uncertainty, and I hated uncertainty worse than I did betrayal.

"What else haven't you mentioned?" I asked.

"Nothing. I swear—"

"Your swearing means nothing. You've proven that."

I sipped again, thinking, adding up the figures. Morrison wasn't just fishing anymore. He was busy building a case, one small piece at a time. The getting coffee, asking about Veronica, being at the fundraiser. He was moving in for the kill and Vivian had given him ammunition.

“Morrison is laying a foundation,” I said. "Against me. Against us."

"I know."

“And you thought it was a good idea to meet him alone?”

“He said I don’t get a choice —”

"There's always a choice." I slammed my glass harder than I meant to. "You chose him over me."

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what you did."

I approached her tentatively, and saw her flinch. Fear flowed off her in waves, but there was something else beneath the fear. Defiance, maybe. Or resignation. She was becoming increasingly inscrutable and that scared me more than I chose to let on.

"Tell me everything," I commanded. "Every question he asked. Every answer you gave. Every word."

She did, haltingly, her voice quivering. I listened intently, digesting every nugget of information, inventorying what Morrison knew as fact from what he suspected. The questions about her childhood, the questions about Veronica and how long we’d been together. He was constructing a timeline, searching for inconsistencies.

And he would find them. Because they existed.

“Who are you?” he questioned, she said in a low tone of voice. "About Veronica."

What color she had in her face fled. I felt my jaw tighten.

"What did you tell him?"
"That Veronica is my sister. That we look alike. That's all."

"And he believed you?"
"I think so?"

My eyes narrowed. "You think so. That's not good enough."
I took out my phone and called Xavier.It was late, but it didn’t matter. Voice alert, he answered on the second ring. Xavier actually never went to sleep when I was getting him down.

“We got a problem,” I said with out preamble. "Morrison is actively investigating Vivian."

"How bad?”

"Bad. He's asking about her identity. About Veronica."

There was a momentary silence while Xavier frowned. I could almost hear him thinking out the implications. "What are you going to do?"

"Control the narrative. We need documentation. It’s now solid, irrefutable evidence of who she is.”

“Dom, if that paperwork doesn’t exist.. .”

"Then we create it. Birth certificates, school records, everything."

"That's forgery—"

"That's survival."

Xavier was quiet again. He was speaking so carefully. "This is risky. If they find us forging federal papers—"

"They won't. You'll make sure of it."

"When do you need it?"

"Yesterday."

"I'll get started now. But Dom, this is going to take time and resources.”

"Use whatever you need. Money isn't the issue. Preempting this investigation is.”

When Xavier said yes and hung up the phone, I glanced back at Vivian. She was listening to the whole conversation, and sitting still and waiting; praying for courage, scared to death of what she might have to do. Her eyes followed me everywhere as if I were a predator she couldn’t elude.
Smart girl.

"Here’s how it will work," I told them. "You are not going to speak with anyone. FBI, reporters, all who ask questions about us.”

"Okay."

“Should Morrison get in touch with you again, you decline. You demand your lawyer."

"What lawyer?"

"I'll assign you one. Someone I trust. Someone who understands how to navigate federal investigations.”

"Dominic—"

"This is not a discussion." She closed in on me, crowding my space on purpose. “Either you follow my rules or there’s the door.”

"What consequences?" She was a small voice, but it had the defiant strand.

I lightly cupped her face. My thumb followed the curve of her jaw, and I felt her pulse jump beneath her skin. "You don't want to find out."

She met my eyes and I watched as she just a knew what I was telling her. The fight went slack from her shoulders, and compliance took its place. It should have satisfied me. It didn't.

“There’s something else,” I said, leaving my hand on her face. "A gala. Next week. Bigger than the fundraiser. More important people. More money. More influence."

"Do I have to go?"

"Yes. And you're going to be perfect because you won't even know.” Charming. The ideal wife." I brushed my thumb over her bottom lip and touched the softness of it. "Because Morrison will be there. And other feds. And we’re going to show them that we are untouchable.”

The next week was intensive. I had her coached, practically fed her script: Here’s what you say to every question possible; here’s every trap they throw. She was coached by former professional media consultants on body language, tone, facial expressions. I was at every session, criticizing, correcting, expecting perfection.

“If someone asks about your childhood, what do you say? the consultant asked.

"I grew up in Bridgeport. Normal childhood. Close with my family."

"If they ask about Veronica?"

"She's my sister. We're not close anymore."

"If they ask why you married Mr. DeLaurentis?

"Love. We fell in love."

The word came out weird, hollow feeling on her lips but she said it again and again until it began to sound almost real. Almost real.

I stood there by the window, hands crossed and watched. "Your body language is wrong. You look nervous."

"I am nervous."

"Then hide it better."

She attempted again, squaring her shoulders, raising her chin. Better, but not perfect. Nothing about this was ideal.

The sessions stretched several hours every day. By week’s end, she seemed weary, dark bags beneath her eyes that makeup couldn’t completely cover up. But she was growing into the role. More confident in the lies.

At night, I came to her room. I fucked her the way I wanted to fuck myself, hard and brutal, taking out my frustrations, fears at being on front line of battle that we couldn’t show each other during the day. She never refused me, never resisted, simply allowed me to take and take until I’d had enough.

But I never stayed after. Never showed softness or vulnerability. That wasn't what this was. She was an instrument, a thing in someone’s possession — and he might do whatever he damn well pleased with her. Nothing more.

“You’re getting better,” I said to her one night after she finished with me. I was getting dressed and already starting to psych myself up for the following day’s battles.

"At what?" Her voice was tired, defeated.

"Playing the role. Being my wife."

I watched her reel at the words, watched her hurt flicker in and out of her expression before she sandwiched it. Good. She had to know what this was. What she was.

“What if I can’t keep this up?” she asked quietly. "At the gala?"

I stopped at the door and put my hand on it. "Then we both go down. You for fraud. Me for everything else." I turned back around to her, my face a mask. "So you'll maintain it. Because the alternative is prison. For both of us."