Chapter 3 - The Waking Nightmare
Pain wasn't a feeling; it was a physical weight crushing my ribs, burning through my shoulders, and pinning my limbs to the mattress like iron spikes.
I opened my eyes, but everything was a blur of bright white light and towering, distorted shadows. A high-pitched, steady chime echoed somewhere near my ear.
"Easy," a deep, rough voice commanded gently from the darkness beside me. "Don't try to pull against the tube. You're safe."
I panicked, my lungs violently fighting against the plastic tube stuck down my throat. My heart rate spiked, making the monitors blare in a frantic crescendo.
Hands—large, warm, and remarkably gentle—firmly gripped my wrists, holding them down against the bed frame so I wouldn't rip out the IV lines connected to the backs of my hands.
"Look at me," the voice ordered. "Clara, look at me."
I forced my eyes to focus.
The blurry shadow coalesced into the broad, imposing silhouette of the man in the midnight tuxedo from the hotel ballroom. Dominic Rossi. He wasn't wearing his formal jacket anymore; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick, tattooed forearms. His dark eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by heavy circles of exhaustion.
A doctor in blue scrubs rushed into the room, expertly tweaking a valve on my IV pole. Within seconds, a cool wave of liquid ice washed through my veins, dulling the violent edge of the panic and slowing my heart.
"We're removing the ventilator now, Mrs. Rossi," the doctor said softly. "I need you to cough when I count to three."
Mrs. Rossi?
Before my fogged brain could process the strange title, the doctor pulled the long tube from my throat. I gagged, gasping in a ragged, agonizing lungful of real air that felt like liquid fire spreading through my shredded chest.
"Drink," Dominic murmured, bringing a plastic cup with a flexible straw to my cracked lips.
I swallowed small sips of cold water, my throat feeling stripped raw. I looked up at him, my vision slowly clearing, taking in the bruised exhaustion etched across his sharp jawline.
"My... my mom," I rasped, my voice little more than a dry, broken whisper. "The treatment center... in Cleveland..."
Dominic set the cup down. "Your mother was transferred to the Private Pavilion at Mount Sinai two hours ago. Her bills are paid in full, and she has a dedicated team of cardiologists monitoring her around the clock."
I stared at him, confused, my mind struggling through the heavy haze of fentanyl and surgical trauma. "How... how did you pay for that? I didn't... my insurance..."
"You don't need to worry about insurance ever again," Dominic said quietly. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the metal guardrail of my bed, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "You've been in a medically induced coma for four days, Clara. Surgeons took five bullets out of your abdomen, shoulder, and leg. Two are still lodged near your spine—too dangerous to remove right now."
I blinked slowly, looking down at my body under the sheet. I looked at my left hand, which was lying on the blanket.
There, glittering softly beneath the fluorescent hospital lights, was a polished gold band on my fourth finger.
I lifted my hand slightly, my fingers trembling violently. "What... what is this?"
Dominic didn't flinch. He reached out and rested his thumb lightly over the metal ring.
"While you were in surgery, the men who ordered the attack on the ballroom realized you survived," Dominic explained, his tone completely flat, clinical, and devoid of fear. "They knew you could identify the shooter. They sent men to this hospital to finish the job."
"So... you put a ring on my hand?" I asked, my voice rising in high, raspy confusion. "Is this a joke?"
"In my world, Clara, a witness is a liability that gets eliminated," Dominic said, leaning in closer until his face was inches from mine. "A wife is an absolute line in the sand. I married you while you were in the operating room to give you legal immunity and the full military protection of my family. As long as that ring is on your finger, any man who looks at you wrong answers directly to me."
I stared at him in utter disbelief. "You... you married me without my consent?"
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"I saved your life," Dominic replied smoothly. "You can be mad at me all you want once you can walk again. But right now, you are Mrs. Dominic Rossi, and you are going home to my estate today."
Before I could scream at him, the heavy door swung open, and four armed men in charcoal suits stepped into the room, holding leather duffel bags and a wheelchair.
