"Seven bullets were still inside my body when Dominic Rossi married me, and I didn’t even know it was happening

Leaving the hospital did not involve a wheelchair ride to a yellow cab.

It involved an underground tunnel beneath St. Catherine’s, a convoy of four identical armored black Suburbans with tinted, bulletproof glass, and six men carrying semi-automatic rifles concealed beneath tailored overcoats.

I was carried into the back of the second vehicle by Dominic himself. When the hospital staff had attempted to transfer me to a gurney, he had simply waved them off, slipping his arms beneath my knees and back with a precision that somehow managed not to jostle a single one of my thirty-four surgical staples.

Every breath was still an ordeal. My body felt like a broken porcelain vase that had been crudely glued back together. Two bullets had torn through my left shoulder; three had shattered ribs and grazed my lung; one had lodged in my hip; and the seventh had narrowly missed my femoral artery. By all medical logic, I should have been in a morgue drawer.

Instead, I was resting against the leather seats of an eighty-thousand-dollar SUV, watching the Manhattan skyline disappear behind us as we crossed the bridge into the wooded, secluded hills of upstate New York.

“Drink this,” Dominic said, holding a small paper cup of water and two white pills toward me.

I turned my head away, pressing my cheek against the cold glass of the window. “I don’t want your drugs.”

“They aren't my drugs, Clara. They are your prescribed antibiotics and pain management. If you get a systemic infection, your body will go into septic shock before we reach the gates.” His voice was calm, but there was an immovable bedrock beneath it. “Take the pills.”

I glared at him. “You kidnapped me.”

“I evacuated my wife from an active war zone.”

“I am not your wife!”

Dominic didn’t raise his voice. He simply held the cup steady. “The paperwork filed with the county clerk says otherwise. The rings say otherwise. And most importantly, the three snipers Costa positioned on the roof across from St. Catherine’s three hours ago believe it. If you were a civilian waitress, you’d be dead on an autopsy slab right now. As Mrs. Dominic Rossi, they hesitated long enough for my men to eliminate them.”

My blood ran cold. “You killed people outside the hospital?”

“I protected what belongs to me,” he said, utterly remorseless. “Now take the pills, or I will have the nurse in the follow-up vehicle administer them intravenously.”

Humiliation and fury burned through my veins, but the agony radiating from my ribs gave me no choice. I snatched the pills from his palm, swallowed them dry, and choked down the water he offered.

He took the empty cup back, his eyes lingering on my pale face. For a fleeting second, the terrifying mob boss vanished, replaced by an expression of raw, unvarnished concern. He reached out, his knuckles brushing the bruised skin along my jawline, but I flinched away, pressing myself deeper into the leather cushions.

His jaw tightened, but he withdrew his hand without another word.

Twenty minutes later, the convoy turned off the private highway onto a winding road lined with towering oak trees and razor-wire-topped wrought iron fences. We passed through two security checkpoints manned by armed guards with German Shepherds before arriving at the main estate.

It wasn't a house. It was a fortress.

A sprawling, limestone manor built in the European chateau style, surrounded by manicured grounds, surveillance towers, and an army of men in dark suits. As the Suburban came to a halt beneath the stone portico, the front doors of the estate swung open.

Standing on the threshold was Isabella Rossi.

She wasn't wearing the glamorous evening gown from the Aster Crown. She wore a simple cashmere sweater and trousers, her silver hair pulled back into a soft chignon. But the moment Dominic lifted me out of the car, Isabella hurried down the stone steps, tears welling in her dark eyes.

“Clara,” Isabella breathed, her voice cracking with emotion. She reached out, her hands trembling as she gently touched my arm, careful not to touch my bandaged torso. “Oh, my brave girl. Look what they did to you.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Rossi,” I managed to whisper, though the movement was making my vision swim with black spots.

“You call me Isabella,” she scolded gently, walking alongside Dominic as he carried me through the grand foyer. Crystal chandeliers hung from thirty-foot ceilings, and marble floors reflected the soft light, but all I could focus on was the terrifying scale of the cage I had just entered. “You gave your blood for mine. In this house, you are not a guest. You are our savior.”

“Mother, she needs to rest,” Dominic said firmly, his long strides carrying us toward a private elevator tucked behind a grand mahogany staircase. “The doctor is waiting upstairs.”

“I’ve prepared the south wing,” Isabella said, pressing the elevator button. “It gets the morning sun. Her mother will be comfortable there too, once she’s strong enough to travel.”

I stiffened in Dominic’s arms, the sudden movement sending a spike of agony through my hip. “What? My mother?”

Dominic glanced down at me as the elevator doors slid shut. “I told you. Ellen is receiving the best care in the country. But once her surgery is complete and she stabilizes, she cannot stay in a public hospital, Clara. Costa knows who she is. She will live here, where my perimeter security can guarantee her safety.”

“You’re bringing my sick mother into a mob compound?” My voice rose, thin and panicked. “She has a heart condition! If she finds out what happened—if she sees these men with guns—”

“She won't see guns,” Dominic said calmly as the elevator chimed and opened onto a luxurious, sun-drenched corridor. “She will see a private medical estate staffed by top-tier professionals. She will know that her daughter married a wealthy businessman who can afford to save her life. That is all she needs to know.”

“You’re lying to her.”

“I am keeping her alive,” he corrected, kicking open the double doors to a massive master suite.

The room was vast, dominated by a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a roaring fireplace, and French doors leading to a private terrace overlooking a heavily guarded lake. A middle-aged woman in medical scrubs was already setting up an IV pole and monitoring equipment beside the bed.

Dominic laid me down with excruciating care, adjusting the pillows behind my head so that my injured ribs weren't compressed. When he pulled the plush duvet over my legs, our faces were barely inches apart.

His dark eyes searched mine, searching for something I refused to give him.

“You have everything you need here,” he whispered. “Maria will monitor your vitals. My mother will stay with you during the day. You are safe, Clara.”

“Safe?” I let out a bitter, breathy laugh. “I am a prisoner.”

Dominic stood up straight, his towering frame casting a shadow over the bed. He smoothed his suit jacket, his expression locking down into the cold, ruthless mask that had terrified the ballroom.

“If being my wife makes you a prisoner, then so be it,” Dominic said chillingly. “Because outside these gates, you are a corpse. Try to remember that before you decide to hate me.”