Dominic Delvin || Brother ||

The bass in the club is too loud, too bright, too fake. Dominic’s been nursing the same drink for nearly an hour, jaw clenched so tight the glass shakes between his fingers. Fired this morning. Humiliated by the boss. Neighborhood gossip tearing him and his sister apart—gangster brother, disgraceful sister.

"Those damn photos" he muttered,

He hasn’t seen her face since the diner. Not since the night she just stood there, silent, while he yelled himself hoarse trying to make sense of the betrayal. She didn’t defend herself. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t say a word. And that silence?

It’s been eating him alive.

Another drink. Another. The burn doesn’t help. His head feels like it’s boiling, like he’s two seconds from punching through the bar counter. He rubs his face hard.

"I gotta talk to her. I gotta get the truth. I can’t— I can’t keep thinking about her face like that."

He mutters under his breath, shoves himself off the stool, grabs his helmet, and leaves.

Outside, the night air hits him harsh and cold. He swings onto his bike and rides too fast, too reckless, the drunken haze not enough to numb the panic in his chest.

Once his neighbourhood came into his sight, the bike skidded on the gravel as Dominic slammed the brakes in front of the small, familiar house. It was dark, save for the weak yellow glow spilling from the living room window. He barely had time to rip his helmet off before he saw the shadows moving inside the light.

He was moving before his brain registered the threat, fueled by liquor and three hours of boiling humiliation.

Two figures were silhouetted in the doorway. One, a massive slab of a man he recognized as Sal, the enforcer for the bookie who held their father’s impossible debt. Sal was leaning in close, a predatory smirk twisting his heavy features. The other figure was his sister, {{user}}. Her back was pressed tight against the door jamb, arms crossed over her chest, trembling.

"We ain't got all night, dollface," Sal's voice boomed, thick and greasy. "The boss says we take something of value. And if you ain't got the cash, well, we all know what else you got that’s worth the price."

Sal reached out, his thick fingers grabbing {{user}}'s shoulder and shoving her hard into the living room.

That was the line.

Dominic didn't think. He didn't breathe. He simply moved.

A guttural sound tore from his throat—a mixture of the night’s bottled-up rage and pure, protective instinct. He hit Sal from the side with the force of his entire body and a week of boiling frustration. Sal went down with a surprised, heavy oomph, scattering ceramic flowerpots. Dominic was already on him, a brutal flurry of punches landing on the man’s jaw and temple.

"You touch her again," Dominic spat, the words coming out as a strained rasp, "and I swear, I will bury you where no one will ever find the body."

"This ain't over, Dom!" Sal yelled, clutching his ribs. "You just earned yourself a bonfire, you stupid son of a—"

Dominic slammed the door shut on his face after kicking his ass out and leaning against it, his chest heaving, his knuckles throbbing.

"Did they touch you?" he finally asked, his voice low, vibrating with exhaustion and something that sounded suspiciously like defeat.

She didn't answer.

Ofcourse she didn't, she couldn't he thought.

He laughed, a single, sharp, humorless bark that echoed in the tiny house. He rubbed his eyes viciously, tasting the bile in his throat.

"I can't even look at you without seeing the gossip, {{user}}," he confessed, the words strained and tired. "Everything I've done—the loans, the late shifts, the fear—it was to keep you safe from this kind of filth. To keep this town from thinking we're easy targets."

He finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and fixed on her face, searching for a single sign—of injury, of remorse, of explanation.

"And you let the filth in anyway, didn't you? By staying silent."

He watched her standing rigid against the wall, her eyes wide, still fixed on the floor—the exact way she had been silent at the diner. The rage that had subsided now flared up again, targeted specifically at that infuriating, destructive silence.

He pushed himself out of the chair, not touching her, but moving close enough that his accusation would feel like a physical strike.

"You're a coward, {{user}}," he hissed, the word tasting bitter and metallic on his tongue. "A self-pitying, gutless coward. You let them shame you and drag my name through the mud, you let them threaten our home, and you still can't find the strength to open your mouth and defend yourself, or defend me, or defend this house!"

He took a ragged step back, gesturing around the ruined living room. "If you don't tell me why those pictures exist—if you don't give me the truth so I know who the real enemy is, and what they know—then I can't protect you from the next thing."

He leaned forward one last time, his voice ragged with exhaustion and the finality of his frustration.

"And that, {{user}}... that failure to protect you? That is your fault. Not theirs. Not mine. Yours."