Chapter 4 4

Dominic stared at Hank's hand. The heavy fingers splayed across the silk of Evelin's dress. The thumb rubbing slow circles against her hip.

Hank noticed Dominic's gaze. He didn't pull away. He deliberately squeezed Evelin's hip, harder this time.

Hank whispered, loud enough for the silence to carry it to Dominic's ears, "Happy Anniversary, Dom."

Something snapped in Dominic's brain. It wasn't a thought; it was a circuit breaker blowing. The civil veneer, the years of etiquette, the Ivy League restraint-it all shattered.

Dominic lunged.

He closed the distance in one stride. He threw a right hook, putting the entire weight of his betrayal, his grief, and his lost years into the motion.

CRUNCH.

His fist connected with Hank's jaw. The sound was sickening-bone on bone.

Hank stumbled back, his eyes rolling up. He crashed into the low table. Glass shattered. Champagne bottles exploded. Liquid sprayed everywhere in a frothy geyser. Chloe screamed, a high-pitched shriek that pierced the room.

Hank hit the floor hard, clutching his bleeding mouth, groaning.

Dominic stood over him, panting. His fist throbbed with a dull, heavy ache. His knuckles were split.

For a second, the room was paralyzed by the violence. The music outside seemed miles away.

SLAP.

A sharp, stinging pain exploded across Dominic's left cheek. His head whipped to the side.

He stumbled, catching his balance. He turned slowly.

Evelin was standing there, her hand raised, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wide with fury. Not fear. Fury.

"You animal!" she screamed. "Look what you did to him!"

She rushed past Dominic, dropping to her knees in the broken glass and spilled alcohol. She didn't care about her dress. She cradled Hank's head in her lap.

"Hank? Hank, are you okay? Look at me." Her voice was soft, frantic. She was cooing to him.

Dominic touched his stinging cheek. The physical pain was nothing. It was a gnat bite. But the sight... the sight of his wife holding another man, looking at him with that level of concern... that was the executioner's axe.

He realized then that the marriage wasn't just dying. It was a corpse he had been dragging around for years, pretending it was still warm.

Miller and two other guards rushed into the room, radios crackling.

Evelin looked up, her face twisted in a snarl. She pointed at Dominic. "Get him out of here! He's crazy! He assaulted him!"

Miller reached for Dominic's arm.

Dominic raised a hand. "Don't touch me."

The command in his voice stopped Miller cold.

Dominic straightened his jacket. He smoothed his lapels. He regained a shred of composure, pulling the mask of the elite back over his raw face.

He looked down at his wife, who was wiping blood from her lover's lip with the hem of her designer dress.

"I want a divorce," Dominic said. His voice was devoid of emotion. It was dead.

Evelin froze. She looked up, scoffing. "You wouldn't dare."

Dominic met her eyes. "Watch me."

He turned on his heel. He stepped over the puddle of champagne and blood. He walked out of the room, past the stunned guards, past the gawking socialites.

As he exited the club, the cold night air hit him. It bit at his skin, signaling the start of a long, dark winter. The war had begun.