Chapter 4 - Shadows and Scars
Physical therapy was its own circle of hell.
The bullet that had shattered my left shoulder blade had left scar tissue that pulled like rusted wire every time I tried to raise my arm. The bullet that had grazed my lower ribs made bending at the waist feel like being stabbed anew.
"Again," the private therapist, a stern woman named Dr. Sterling, instructed. "Five more degrees, Mrs. Rossi. You have to break the adhesions."
I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted iron, lifting the light wooden rod above my head. A white-hot spike of agony tore through my back. A muffled cry slipped past my teeth, and my knees buckled.
I braced for the impact of the hardwood floor, but it never came.
Strong, familiar arms caught me from behind, lifting me effortlessly against a broad chest.
"That's enough for today, Sterling," Dominic's voice rumbled against my spine.
"Mr. Rossi, if she doesn't push through the pain, she'll lose thirty percent of her mobility—"
"I said, that's enough," he repeated, not raising his voice, but the tone left zero room for argument. "Leave us."
Dr. Sterling gathered her equipment without another word and slipped out of the solarium, the heavy glass doors sliding shut behind her.
Dominic didn't put me down immediately. He held me suspended against him, letting my labored breathing settle, his hands resting securely beneath my thighs and behind my shoulders. I was sweating through my gray tank top, my hair plastered to my neck, trembling with exhaustion and frustration.
"Put me down," I whispered, ashamed of how helpless I felt.
Instead of putting me on the floor, he carried me over to the chaise lounge by the sunlit terrace and laid me down gently, resting my head against the plush cushions. He pulled a linen towel from the side table and began gently dabbing the sweat from my forehead and temple.
"I can do it myself," I protested weakly, reaching for the towel.
"Stop," he said softly, batting my hand away with gentle authority. "Let me."
His expression was focused, almost reverent, as he wiped the dampness from the curve of my neck. He was wearing an open-collared white shirt, the sleeves pushed up, smelling of crisp starch and cedar. For a man who controlled an empire of violence, his hands were remarkably tender.
"Why do you do this?" I asked, looking into his eyes. "You have servants. You have guards. You run half the city. Why are you spending your afternoons playing nurse to a broken waitress?"
Dominic's hand stilled at the hollow of my throat. His amber eyes darkened, a cloud of memories passing over them.
"You're not broken," he murmured.
"Look at me, Dominic," I said bitterly, pulling the collar of my tank top slightly aside to expose the jagged, angry red marks across my clavicle and down toward my ribs. "I'm ruined. I look like a roadmap of a massacre."
Dominic's gaze dropped to the scars. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned down and pressed his lips directly against the thickest scar on my shoulder.
A shiver raced down my spine, so sharp and electric that I gasped.
"Every mark on your body is a testament to why my mother is still breathing," he whispered against my skin, his voice thick with a raw, intoxicating intensity. "They aren't ruins, Tessa. They are proof that death came for this family, and you told it to go to hell."
He lifted his head, his face inches from mine. The air between us grew thick, combustible. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me—really kiss me—and the terrifying truth was that I wasn't going to pull away.
Then, the moment fractured.
"Boss," Enzo's voice echoed through the solarium entrance. He stopped dead, noticing the proximity between us, and cleared his throat awkwardly. "The car is ready. The council meeting is in forty minutes."
Dominic didn't look flustered. He slowly pulled back, his eyes lingering on mine for one beat longer than necessary, before standing to his full height. He smoothed the lapels of his shirt, the cold don sliding back into place like a visor slamming down.
"Rest," Dominic told me. "Isabella will be here with lunch shortly."
He turned and strode out, Enzo following half a step behind.
I lay there for a long time, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs. The way he had kissed my scar... the absolute, unyielding devotion in his eyes. It was intoxicating. It was dangerous.
*Don't be a fool,* I scolded myself. *He feels indebted to you. It's mob honor. It isn't love.*
Later that evening, after Isabella had visited, fussed over my appetite, and left with the promises of bringing me homemade cannoli from her favorite bakery in Little Italy, the mansion fell into a tomb-like quiet.
Dominic was still out. Enzo was gone. Most of the guards were stationed outside the estate perimeter.
I couldn't sleep. The pain was dull, but my mind was racing.
*Enzo’s words from the ICU kept echoing in my head:*
*"Boss, if she survives and discovers why you already had a file on her, she’ll never forgive you."*
A file. He had a file on me *before* the shooting. Why? What could a New York crime kingpin possibly want with an anonymous, broke waitress working catering gigs to pay for her mother’s heart medication?
Driven by a sudden, reckless surge of adrenaline, I slipped out of bed, threw on a dark robe, and opened my bedroom door.
The hallway was dimly lit by sconces shaped like wrought-iron torches. The Persian runners muffled my footsteps as I padded toward Dominic's private study at the far end of the west wing. The door was heavy oak, intricately carved with the Rossi crest—a wolf clutching a dagger.
I reached for the polished brass handle. To my surprise, it turned. The door clicked open with a quiet hiss.
The room smelled entirely of Dominic: aged whiskey, rich leather, tobacco, and expensive parchment. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, while a massive mahogany desk dominated the center, facing the bay windows overlooking the dark Hudson.
My heart was in my throat. If a guard caught me, what would happen? But the curiosity was a fire in my blood, burning away caution.
I moved behind the desk. There were three locked drawers. I pulled on them—solid brass deadbolts. Useless.
Then I noticed the brass key left resting inside an empty crystal tumbler near his laptop.
Dominic was meticulous. He never forgot a detail. Leaving the key behind was either a monumental mistake... or an arrogance born of believing no one would dare trespass in his sanctuary.
With trembling fingers, I took the key and inserted it into the lowest drawer. It turned with a satisfying, metallic *click*.
Inside lay stacks of ledgers, passports with various names, and a matte-black Sig Sauer 9mm handgun. Beneath the weapon sat a thick manila folder labeled in bold, black marker:
**VANCE, TESSA – SURVEILLANCE & RECOVERY**
My breath hitched. I pulled the folder out, my fingers shaking violently.
I opened it under the soft green glow of the desk lamp.
The first page made my blood turn to ice.
It was a photograph of me, taken three months ago, walking out of the diner where I used to work morning shifts. There was another of me at the pharmacy picking up my mother’s nitroglycerin pills. Another of me getting on the subway.
Every aspect of my life for the past year was cataloged. My bank balances, my credit debts, the exact schedule of my mother’s clinic visits.
I flipped to the back page. Stapled to a yellowing sheet from ten years ago was a police incident report from Chicago.
A report detailing an armed robbery and double homicide at an import warehouse.
Listed as the primary deceased victim was my father, Marcus Vance—a man my mother had always told me died in a hit-and-run accident when I was sixteen.
And listed under "Suspects / Persons of Interest" were two names:
*Salvatore Rossi (Deceased)*
*Dominic Rossi (Age 19 – Insufficient Evidence)*
"Find what you were looking for, Tessa?"
The voice cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
I gasped, dropping the folder. Papers scattered across the mahogany desk like autumn leaves.
May you like
Dominic was standing in the shadows of the doorway, his silhouette framed by the hallway light. His hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were black pools of pure, terrifying stillness.
***
