Page 106 of Dial F for Finance

CHAPTER 28

Jenna

The tires of Dominic’s rented SUV crunch over the sprawling gravel driveway of the Cruz family’s Greenwich estate at exactly 3:14 a.m.

Despite the hour, the massive colonial home is illuminated like a commercial runway. Every single window on the ground floor blazes with yellow light.

Dominic shifts the transmission into park, killing the engine. He’s currently staring through the windshield with the grim, resigned expression of a man preparing to defuse an explosive device with a paperclip.

“Initial assessment,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt and smoothing down the front of my cashmere sweater. “No smoke coming out of the windows. No visible police presence. The shouting appears muffled or contained. This might go easier than you think.”

Dominic drags a heavy hand down his face, letting out a breath that fogs the glass for a fraction of a second. He turns to me, his dark eyes shadowed by exhaustion but softening the moment they meet mine. “I should have left you in Chicago. You could be sleeping in our bed right now, completely insulated from this.”

“I sleep perfectly fine on private jets,” I correct him, retrieving my tailored blazer from the backseat. “Besides, I thrive on solving other people’s chaos. Let’s go work the problem together—just like Tokyo.”

A faint, incredulous laugh escapes his chest. He reaches across the center console, his large hand cupping the side of my neck. His thumb sweeps over my jaw, grounding me instantly.

I could catalog all the ways Dominic’s hands undo me—my non-negotiable favorite is like this, his thumb tracing the softest implausible line beneath my jaw, a micro-gesture that feels like anchoring and exposure at the same time. I remember every instance it’s happened, the way some people can quote entire scenes of childhood movies. This is my entire archive.

“I seem to recall you taking the lead in Tokyo. You want to do that here?”

“God no.” I balk. “I was referring to how well we work together when we back each other up.” I should stop there, but my mouth wants to keep going. “I think that if I started bossing your family around this early in our relationship, we wouldn’t even make sixty days.”

“And we don’t want that, do we? This relationship is important to both of us.”

“Well, yes—” I start and abruptly clamp my lips together at the way his mouth curves in a sly grin. “Dominic.”

“Can’t take it back now. You just said I’m important to you.” He drops a quick kiss on my lips and releases me. “Let’s go.”

For a split second, I think of bolting—the preemptive urge to avoid emotional shrapnel is one of my few remaining survival instincts. Instead, I get out of the car and take his hand and walk with him toward whatever awaits us on the other side of that door.

The house smells like ground beef and spices. Dominic doesn’t even get to ring the bell before Helena opens the door, a dish towel in her hands and her eyes rubbed red. The sight of Dominic undoes and reassembles her in the same second.

“Mijo.” Then she sees me behind him and presses the towel to her mouth.

“You brought Jenna,” she says to Dominic, but she’s looking at me, and there is a whole sentence underneath it that I think only she and I can read: he’s never brought help before.

From the kitchen, Esteban’s voice reverberates down the hall. “—and I am telling you, Helena, if that boy had scratched the paint, THEN we would have a problem, but he did NOT scratch the paint, because he is a CRUZ, and Cruzes respect German engineering⁠—”

Esteban rounds the corner mid-broadcast, sees his son, and deflates three sizes in one breath. Then he sees me, and reinflates on pure hospitality. “Mija! You came to see the circus.” He kisses both my cheeks like it isn’t three in the morning. “I would offer you a tour, but the main attraction is impounded.”

“Dad.”

“Two-hundred-and-eighty-five dollars, they want. For eleven blocks of towing⁠—”

“Dad.” Dominic puts a hand on his father’s shoulder, and I watch the volume come down a full bar. “It’s three a.m. Let’s sit, have some tea, and we’ll talk about how we’re gonna fix all of this. I promise, I’ll make it right for everyone.”

A stair creaks above us.

Dustin is standing halfway down in flannel pajamas and his Mets cap, which tells me he either sleeps in it or put it on to come face the firing squad. His arms are crossed. His chin is wobbling.

“Is everyone still mad?” he asks.

“Nobody’s mad enough to matter,” Dominic says.

“Hannah’s parents are mad. They want to keep me away from her.” His voice cracks on the last word, and the sound goes straight through me. “They can’t do that, right? Nicky? They can’t just—people can’t just decide that. I’m a grown-up.”

Dominic crosses the entry and climbs four stairs so they’re eye level.