Chapter 4 - The Iron Gate
The transition from the sterile safety of the hospital to Dominic’s world felt like being dragged into a waking nightmare.
I was wrapped in a thick cashmere blanket and rolled through a private underground service elevator straight into the back of a bulletproof black SUV with blacked-out glass. Two identical vehicles drove ahead and behind us as we moved through the rainy, neon-lit streets of Manhattan.
Dominic sat beside me in the back seat, his gaze constantly moving between the side mirrors and the small encrypted tablet held in his hand.
"Where are we going?" I asked, leaning my head against the cold leather seat, my body throbbing with a dull, constant ache.
"Long Island," he said without looking up from his screen. "The North Shore. It’s a gated estate built in 1928. It’s surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls, infrared perimeter sensors, and twenty-four-hour armed patrols."
"A prison," I muttered.
Dominic paused, slowly turning his head to look at me. "A fortress, Clara. Victor Costa has put a half-million-dollar bounty on your head. Every ambitious hitman from Philadelphia to Boston is looking for a twenty-six-year-old waitress with dark hair and a bullet wound in her shoulder."
"I didn't ask for any of this!" I cried out, my voice cracking with exhaustion and anger. "I was just trying to earn four hundred dollars so I could pay my mother's rent! I didn't ask to get shot, and I certainly didn't ask to become some mobster’s trophy wife!"
Dominic leaned over, his massive frame suddenly towering over me inside the cramped space of the SUV. He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray tear that had slipped down my cheek, his touch surprisingly soft despite the terrifying intensity in his eyes.
"You took seven bullets for my mother, Clara," he whispered, his voice low and vibrating with a dark, primal sincerity. "You threw your body over an old woman you didn't even know. That makes you more noble than any person I’ve ever met in my entire life. I don't treat trophies like this. I treat family like this."
The SUV slowed down, turning off the main highway onto a long, winding driveway framed by massive wrought-iron gates that opened automatically as we approached.
The estate appeared through the rain—a sprawling, dark limestone mansion surrounded by ancient oak trees. Armed men carrying short-barreled automatic rifles stood under black umbrellas near the main entrance, nodding respectfully as our car pulled up to the front steps.
The car door opened, and Enzo held an umbrella over the roof.
Dominic didn't wait for a wheelchair. He carefully reached into the back seat, slid one broad arm under my knees and another behind my back, and lifted me effortlessly out of the vehicle.
I gasped as the movement pulled against my abdominal stitches, reflexively wrapping my good arm around his broad neck. His suit jacket smelled expensive—a mixture of cedarwood, dark tobacco, and rain.
"I can walk," I lied through grit teeth.
"You can barely sit up without passing out," Dominic replied, carrying me up the wide stone steps as the heavy front doors swung open.
Inside, the grand foyer was magnificent—soaring marble ceilings, a double staircase, and a roaring fire burning in a massive stone fireplace.
Standing near the hearth, wearing a soft wool shawl, was Isabella.
When she saw Dominic carrying me through the door, her face lit up with a look of overwhelming emotion. She hurried across the marble floor, taking my limp hand in hers.
"Clara," Isabella wept, kissing my forehead. "Thank God. Thank God you’re home."
"Welcome to the Rossi estate, Clara," Dominic said softly, carrying me toward the grand staircase. "You’re safe now."
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As he carried me up the stairs, I looked back down at the grand entrance. Standing near the front doors was Enzo, holding a thick leather folder under his arm—the same folder Dominic had looked at before marrying me.
And for a fraction of a second, Enzo looked at me with a expression that wasn't respect, but deep, tragic pity.
