Chapter 1 - The Price of Peace
Nobody in Clara Gallagher’s world married for love.
Love was too expensive.
People married for ports, trucking routes, political favors, judges, protection, old debts, new territory, and the occasional corpse somebody needed forgotten. A wedding was simply war wearing white flowers.
Clara understood that before she ever stepped into St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
What she had not understood was how heavy surrender could feel.
Forty pounds of French lace, hand-sewn pearls, and silk dragged against her shoulders while she stood in the vestibule beside her father. Frank Gallagher had selected the gown himself. Or, more accurately, he had selected the designer and instructed somebody else to make certain his daughter looked like a princess being delivered to a rival king.
Frank wouldn’t look at her.
That bothered Clara more than the organ music, the armed men disguised as ushers, or the three hundred guests waiting beyond the doors.
Her father had stared down federal prosecutors.
He had faced men with guns pressed against his ribs.
Once, when Clara was thirteen, she had watched him calmly finish his coffee while somebody threw a brick through the front window of their Boston townhouse.
Today his eyes were fixed on his cuff links.
“You’re wrinkling your sleeve,” Clara said.
Frank’s hand stopped.
“It’s fine.”
“You’ve adjusted it six times.”
He looked at her then.
Just for a second.
Gray hair at his temples. Broad shoulders softened slightly by age. A face built for grudges.
And guilt.
Clara saw it.
“Don’t,” she said quietly.
His jaw tightened. “Don’t what?”
“Pretend you’re doing this for me.”
A muscle moved in his cheek.
The cathedral doors were still closed. They had perhaps thirty seconds before somebody signaled the organist.
Frank lowered his voice.
“If I had another choice—”
“You always have another choice.”
“Not one that keeps Tommy breathing.”
That landed where he knew it would.
Clara looked away.
Her younger brother had never been suited for the Gallagher world. Tommy was twenty-one, impulsive, funny, too trusting, and convinced that being born into a dangerous family somehow made him bulletproof.
Three weeks earlier, a Costello convoy had been attacked near Newark.
Two men died.
Gallagher people denied involvement.
Costello people did not believe them.
Then came the debt.
Three million dollars connected to port expansion contracts, container access, and permits Frank had promised but could no longer deliver.
Dominic Costello could have demanded money.
He could have demanded territory.
Instead, his captains demanded blood.
Frank offered a marriage.
Clara.
Peace wrapped in satin.
The doors opened.
Every conversation beyond them stopped.
Frank extended his arm.
“It’s time, kid.”
Clara stared down the aisle.
Dominic Costello waited near the altar.
He was taller than she remembered.
She had met him twice before. Both times at events where smiling men discussed charity while their security details checked one another for concealed weapons.
Dominic wore charcoal.
Not black.
The distinction seemed ridiculous, but Clara noticed anyway. His suit fit perfectly across broad shoulders. Dark hair combed back. No flower in his lapel.
No smile.
His expression suggested that somebody had scheduled this marriage between two meetings and he intended to remain on time.
Clara slipped her hand through her father’s arm.
“Try not to look relieved when you give me away.”
Frank flinched.
Good.
They walked.
The cathedral seemed longer than it had during rehearsal.
Gallagher men occupied the left side. Costello men the right.
She recognized lieutenants, lawyers, businessmen, wives who knew more than they admitted, sons raised to inherit grudges, daughters raised to marry around them.
At the front stood Arthur Vale, Dominic’s underboss.
Arthur was enormous.
Six-foot-five at least, with a broken nose and the patient expression of a man accustomed to cleaning up other people’s mistakes. He gave Clara a nearly invisible nod.
Dominic did not.
Not until Frank stopped beside him.
For a moment, neither man moved.
Frank Gallagher and Dominic Costello.
Boston and New York.
Old money made illegally in different accents.
Frank took Clara’s hand and placed it in Dominic’s.
Dominic’s fingers closed around hers.
Warm.
Firm.
Impersonal.
Frank whispered, “Take care of her.”
Dominic’s gaze stayed on Clara.
“I keep my agreements.”
That was not the answer a father wanted.
It was probably the only answer Dominic knew how to give.
The ceremony began.
The priest spoke of devotion.
Dominic looked as comfortable as a man sitting through a tax seminar.
The priest spoke of sacrifice.
Clara almost laughed.
Then she saw her father watching from the first pew and lost the urge.
When the vows came, Dominic’s voice was low and steady.
Clara heard hers answer from far away.
I do.
Two words.
A border redrawn.
The ring Dominic slipped onto her finger was old. Platinum. A diamond cut in a style decades out of fashion.
She had expected something enormous.
Instead, the ring looked personal.
That unsettled her.
When the priest invited Dominic to kiss his bride, Dominic leaned in.
Clara lifted her chin.
His hand touched her waist.
His mouth brushed hers.
Nothing more.
Camera flashes exploded.
Applause thundered.
Dominic stepped back before the sound faded.
Transaction complete.
The Plaza reception was exactly the kind of obscene display Clara’s mother would have hated.
Her mother had been dead seven years.
Clara found herself thinking of her often that day.
White orchids covered the ballroom.
Champagne flowed faster than honest conversation.
Frank gave a speech about family.
Nobody laughed at the irony.
Dominic gave no speech at all.
For two hours he sat beside Clara at the head table while men approached him one after another.
Contracts.
Names.
Shipments.
A problem in Queens.
Somebody arrested in Jersey.
A union leader asking questions.
Clara listened while pretending she wasn’t.
Dominic noticed.
She knew because, after the fourth conversation, he leaned slightly closer.
“You’re very interested in the centerpiece.”
Clara kept her eyes on the orchids.
“It’s fascinating.”
“It hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.”
“Neither have you.”
His mouth almost changed shape.
Almost.
Then Arthur leaned down and murmured something into Dominic’s ear.
The almost-smile vanished.
Dominic answered in Italian.
Arthur left.
Clara finally looked at him.
“Should I be concerned?”
“No.”
“That sounded like something I should be concerned about.”
“You don’t speak Italian.”
“My mother did.”
Dominic’s eyes shifted to hers.
“You understood?”
“Enough.”
He took a drink of mineral water.
Clara waited.
Nothing.
“That’s it?”
“What would you like?”
“Perhaps acknowledgment that you just discussed a problem involving my family while sitting beside me.”
“I discussed a problem involving a truck.”
“You said Gallagher.”
“The truck belongs to Gallagher Logistics.”
Clara smiled without warmth. “And here I thought marriage meant sharing.”
Dominic checked his watch.
A beautiful Patek Philippe.
The small movement irritated her far more than it should have.
“My life is ending,” she said quietly, “and you’re checking the time.”
Dominic’s eyes returned to hers.
For the first time that day, she had his complete attention.
“I didn’t realize your life had ended.”
“I was traded to settle a debt.”
“You were married.”
“Don’t insult both of us.”
Something unreadable moved behind his eyes.
Then he stood.
“Walk with me.”
Clara glanced toward the dance floor.
Her father was talking to three Costello captains and pretending not to watch them.
“Is that an order?”
“Yes.”
“Charming.”
She followed him anyway.
Dominic led her through a side corridor away from the reception. The music faded behind thick doors and expensive carpet.
He stopped inside a small private room lined with dark wood and brass coat hooks.
Clara crossed her arms.
“Are you going to tell me the truck exploded?”
“It didn’t.”
“Disappointing.”
Dominic closed the door.
Silence.
He leaned against a table and studied her.
Not her gown.
Not the diamond.
Her.
“I think we should establish expectations.”
Clara laughed once.
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“My lawyers cost eight hundred dollars an hour. I’m trying to save money.”
There.
Dry humor.
Unexpected.
She hated that she almost smiled.
Dominic reached into his jacket and removed a silver flask.
“You drink during all your business meetings?”
“Only weddings.”
He took one swallow and put it away.
Then his expression changed.
Not colder.
More precise.
“Your father owes me three million dollars.”
“I know.”
“He also promised port access he can no longer guarantee.”
“I know that too.”
“My captains wanted retaliation.”
“And instead they got me.”
Dominic did not deny it.
Clara’s stomach tightened.
He continued.
“This marriage ends the immediate dispute. Gallagher men stop attacking Costello routes. Costello crews stay out of Gallagher-controlled docks. Both families make money. Nobody gets buried.”
“How romantic.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic.”
“That part is obvious.”
Dominic stepped closer.
“You’ll live in Westchester.”
“I already have an apartment.”
“You won’t use it.”
Clara blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Security.”
“You mean control.”
“I mean somebody tried to put a bomb under one of my cars two months ago.”
That stopped her.
Dominic watched the reaction.
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
“Good. Your father kept at least one useful thing from you.”
Clara hated the little chill moving across her skin.
Dominic went on.
“You’ll have your own rooms. Your own staff if you want them. Your money remains yours. I’ll provide whatever else you require.”
“I require not being spoken about like livestock.”
His gaze hardened.
“In public, we are married. We appear united. You don’t contradict me in front of my men. You don’t discuss family business with outsiders. You don’t disappear without security. You do not involve yourself in operational matters.”
“You forgot ‘sit’ and ‘stay.’”
“Clara.”
“No, Dominic. You bought peace from my father. You did not buy me.”
He went still.
Good.
She stepped closer.
The top of her head barely reached his chin, but she refused to give him even an inch of psychological height.
“You want photographs? Fine. I’ll smile. You want charity dinners? I’ll wear something expensive and pretend I’m impressed. You want everyone to think this marriage saved civilization? Wonderful. But don’t speak to me like I joined your crew.”
Dominic looked at her for several seconds.
Then, very quietly, he said, “This marriage is business.”
Clara felt the words settle between them.
No affection.
No confusion.
No lies.
It should have made things easier.
Instead it hurt in a place she hadn’t expected.
Dominic continued.
“When the doors close, you live your life. I live mine. I don’t expect affection.”
“How generous.”
“I don’t expect loyalty yet either.”
“Yet?”
“That’s earned.”
Clara held his stare.
“And what exactly do you give me in return?”
Dominic answered immediately.
“Safety.”
She laughed.
It came out sharper than intended.
“You’re the reason I need it.”
His expression barely moved.
“Maybe.”
That quiet answer was worse than arrogance.
It sounded like truth.
A knock interrupted them.
Arthur opened the door without waiting.
“Car’s ready.”
Dominic nodded.
Clara frowned.
“Car?”
Dominic looked at her.
“We leave tonight.”
“For where?”
“Corsica.”
She stared.
“Our honeymoon?”
“For appearances.”
“Of course.”
“Seven days.”
“And then?”
“Westchester.”
Clara looked toward the ballroom doors.
“My father knows?”
“He booked your luggage.”
Of course he had.
Dominic opened the door.
Clara didn’t move.
“Dominic.”
He stopped.
“If this is business, then understand something.”
He waited.
“I read contracts.”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“So do I.”
“Then don’t hide the fine print.”
For the first time, his answer took too long.
“I won’t.”
Clara knew instantly that he had lied.
Six hours later, Manhattan disappeared beneath the private jet.
Frank had hugged her at the airport.
Too tightly.
Tommy had whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Clara had whispered back, “Stay alive. Make it worth it.”
Dominic spent most of the flight working from a leather folder while Clara sat near the window pretending to sleep.
Around midnight, she woke to the dim cabin lights.
Dominic was asleep across from her.
His head rested against the seat.
Even sleeping, he looked tense.
One hand lay near his jacket.
There was a pale scar across two knuckles she hadn’t noticed earlier.
Clara looked past him toward the small oval window.
The jet sat temporarily on a private refueling strip outside Paris.
Ground crews moved under floodlights.
A black sedan waited near the edge of the tarmac.
A man stood beside it.
Dark coat.
No luggage.
No airport badge.
Clara straightened.
He was staring directly at the plane.
Then Dominic shifted in his sleep.
Clara looked at him for barely a second.
When she turned back, the man was gone.
So was the sedan.
A ridiculous thought came to her.
They were being followed.
Then she noticed Dominic’s eyes were open.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at the empty section of tarmac where the stranger had been standing.
May you like
And there was nothing sleepy about his face.
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