My daughter showed up on my porch at midnight, clutching her pregnant belly, her designer dress torn. “He said the police work for him, Mom,” she
PART 2
Dominic arrived at 12:37 a.m. with two black SUVs and the kind of confidence only criminals mistake for power.
His headlights washed across my porch. Clara flinched so hard I felt it through the couch cushion. I placed one hand over hers.
“Look at me,” I said softly. “You are not going outside.”
The doorbell rang once. Then Dominic pounded.
“Victoria,” he called, smooth as poison. “Open the door before this becomes embarrassing.”
I walked to the foyer and opened the door with the chain still latched.
He stood under the porch light in a navy suit, hair dry despite the storm, gold watch gleaming. Behind him, Officer Miller from the county precinct rested one hand on his belt, pretending not to be ashamed.
Dominic smiled. “My wife is unstable. Pregnant women get emotional. Send her out, and I’ll forget this little scene.”
“You came with police for a family conversation?” I asked.
Miller cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we’re here for a welfare check.”
“How generous.”
Dominic leaned closer. “Don’t play clever with me. Clara is carrying my heir. She belongs at my house.”
The word belongs moved through me like a blade being sharpened.
From the living room, Clara whispered, “Please don’t let him in.”
Dominic heard her and laughed. “Sweetheart, stop performing. You’ll upset the baby.”
I lifted my phone. “Say that again.”
His smile thinned. “Record all you want. Who do you think they’ll believe? A hysterical wife? Or me?”
That was when he gave me the first gift of the night: arrogance.
“I know every judge worth knowing in this state,” he continued. “I fund campaigns. I fund police foundations. I fund hospitals. People answer when I call.”
“Federal judges don’t run campaigns,” I said.
