Chapter 6 - The Lion’s Den
Two weeks after discharging from St. Catherine’s, I didn’t return to my drafty Queens apartment or the twenty-four-hour diner. I was driven in the back of an armored SUV directly to a sprawling, high-security limestone estate tucked behind wrought-iron gates in Westchester County—the Rossi family compound.
My ribs still throbbed with every deep breath, and the heavy gold ring on my finger felt like an anchor dragging me into an abyss from which I could never return.
Dominic treated me neither like a prisoner nor a fragile patient. He gave me space, assigning a private medical aide to assist with my physical therapy, but he surrounded the estate with an impenetrable perimeter of armed guards. Word had already reached the underground: the nameless catering girl was now Mrs. Dominic Rossi. The underworld held its collective breath, waiting to see how long the volatile alliance between the Rossis and the Costas would hold before total war erupted.
It didn't take long.
On a rainy Tuesday evening, Enzo burst into Dominic’s private study while I was sitting across the mahogany desk, reviewing financial ledgers with Dominic to understand the scope of the empire I had inadvertently married into.
“Boss,” Enzo said, his voice unusually tight. “We intercepted a encrypted transmission routed through a Costa-front shell company in Manhattan. They’ve located Ellen’s treatment facility in Cleveland.”
Dominic’s pen snapped in half between his fingers. The dark ink bled across the ledger page like fresh blood.
“They’re moving on her?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a lethal register.
“Not yet,” Enzo replied, sliding a surveillance tablet onto the desk. “They’re setting up a team. They think Ellen holds the encryption key to the offshore vaults, and they know you’ve brought you-know-who into your inner circle. They’re planning to snatch Ellen tonight to use as leverage against us.”
Panic surged through my chest, overriding the physical pain of my healing wounds. I stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.
“My mother is in a post-op recovery ward! She can’t travel, she can’t defend herself!” My voice cracked with terror. “If Costa’s men touch her—”
“They won’t,” Dominic interrupted. His voice was calm, absolute, and terrifyingly cold. He stood up, towering over the desk, and looked straight into my eyes.
“You’re not going anywhere alone,” Dominic said, walking around the desk until he stood inches from me. He reached out, his warm thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “We fly to Cleveland in an hour. We take my jet, my men, and we secure your mother before Costa’s executioners even set foot in Ohio.”
I looked up into his dark, unreadable eyes. Just a month ago, he was a stranger in a midnight tuxedo. Now, he was my husband, my protector, and the center of the violent storm threatening to swallow my entire world.
“Why?” I whispered, the question tearing at my throat. “Why go to this length for me? You could just hand over the vault, cut your losses, and let Costa have what he wants.”
May you like
Dominic’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second, the iron exterior cracking just enough to reveal something raw and consuming beneath.
“Because the moment you threw yourself in front of my mother, you didn’t just save her life,” Dominic said softly, his fingers tracing the gold band on my finger. “You walked into my fire. And in my world, nobody touches what belongs to me.”
