Chapter 4 - The Capo’s Table
Two weeks passed in a blur of agonizing physical therapy, sterile bandage changes, and suffocating luxury.
Isabella visited every afternoon, bringing homemade chicken broth, warm blankets, and stories about Dominic’s childhood that felt completely detached from the cold-blooded monster who ruled this estate. She spoke of a boy who loved horses, who played the piano, who had never wanted to inherit his father’s blood-soaked empire.
“He didn't have a choice, Clara,” Isabella said softly one afternoon, peeling an apple with a silver paring knife. “When his father, Antonio, was murdered by the Costa family eight years ago, the syndicate would have torn itself apart. They would have slaughtered Dominic, slaughtered me, and painted Manhattan red. Dominic took the crown to keep us alive. He became the monster so the monsters wouldn't eat us.”
“That doesn't make him a hero,” I replied quietly, staring out the reinforced window at the armed guards patrolling the treeline.
“No,” Isabella agreed, handing me a slice of apple. “It makes him a survivor. Just like you.”
My physical recovery was miraculously fast, aided by the private team of doctors who monitored my healing like a military operation. By the end of the third week, the surgical staples were out, leaving behind a constellation of jagged, angry pink scars across my torso. Seven reminders of the night my life ended.
Ellen had undergone her cardiac bypass surgery at NYU Langone. Dominic kept his promise; every evening, an encrypted tablet was brought to my room so I could speak with her. She looked healthier than she had in five years, her cheeks flushed with color. She cried tears of joy, believing her daughter had fallen in love with a wealthy venture capitalist who had miraculously stepped in to save their lives.
I smiled, lied through my teeth, and pretended to be the happiest newlywed on earth.
Because the alternative—telling her that her medical bills were paid in mafia blood money—would have stopped her fragile new heart on the spot.
On the twenty-second evening, the door to my room opened, and Dominic walked in.
He hadn't visited my room in days. He looked immaculate in a custom three-piece charcoal suit, a dark silk tie, and cufflinks made of polished onyx. His sharp eyes raked over me, taking in my loose sweater and leggings.
“Get dressed,” he said.
I set down the book I had been pretending to read. “Excuse me?”
“Tonight is the monthly syndicate assembly,” Dominic explained, his tone devoid of emotion. “The capos of the five families are meeting at the estate. They’ve been whispering for weeks that the new Mrs. Rossi is an invalid, a weak civilian who will distract me from running the Commission.”
A chill ran down my spine. “And why do I care what a bunch of criminals think?”
“Because if they believe you are weak, they will see you as a vulnerability. If they see you as a vulnerability, someone will try to use you as leverage against me.” Dominic stepped toward the walk-in closet, opening the doors to reveal dozens of designer dresses that had been purchased in my size. He pulled out an emerald-green silk evening gown with long sleeves and a high neckline—specifically designed to cover every single one of my scars.
He tossed it onto the edge of the bed.
“You will put on this dress,” he commanded softly. “You will wear the diamonds my mother left on your vanity. And you will walk downstairs on my arm, stand at the head of the table, and look them in the eye. You will show them that the woman who took seven bullets for the Rossi name is not a victim. She is the queen of this family.”
I stared at the shimmering green silk, then up at Dominic. “I am not your queen, Dominic. I am a hostage with a wedding ring.”
Dominic took two slow strides toward me, closing the distance until I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the nape of my neck, his thumb resting against the frantic pulse point in my throat. He didn't squeeze, but the grip was absolute.
“Listen to me very carefully, Clara,” he whispered, his eyes blazing with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs. “I have spent the last three weeks executing every man who helped plan that ballroom hit. Costa is backed into a corner, and the other families smell blood. If you falter tonight, they will strike. Not at me. At you. At your mother.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of my ear.
“Play the part, Clara. For Ellen. For your life. Play the part.”
An hour later, I was descending the grand staircase, my hand resting on the sleeve of Dominic’s tailored jacket.
The emerald dress clung to my frame, the thick silk perfectly concealing the thick bandages still taped over my ribs. A diamond necklace, cold as ice, rested against my collarbone. My hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, and makeup concealed the lingering exhaustion in my eyes.
The great dining hall below was filled with the low rumble of masculine voices, the clinking of whiskey glasses, and the heavy scent of expensive cigars. Twelve men were seated around a massive, twenty-foot mahogany table. When Dominic and I appeared at the double doors, the room fell dead silent.
Every eye turned to us.
Men with broken noses, scarred faces, and cold, dead eyes—the rulers of New York’s underworld—measured me like wolves sizing up a deer.
Dominic walked me to the head of the table, pulling out the plush high-backed chair to his right before taking his seat at the head.
“Gentlemen,” Dominic’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “My wife, Clara Rossi.”
A tense pause followed. Then, a thick-set man at the far end of the table—Salvatore Marcone, a notoriously brutal capo from Brooklyn—let out a dry chuckle.
“A lovely little bird, Dominic,” Marcone sneered, swirling the amber liquor in his glass. “Though she looks a bit frail to be taking lead for the family. You sure she’s going to survive the winter? Or should we prepare another floral arrangement?”
A collective intake of breath rippled around the table. No one spoke to Dominic Rossi that way.
Dominic didn’t shout. He didn’t draw a weapon. He merely set his silver fork down on the porcelain plate with a delicate, deliberate *clink*.
The temperature in the room plummeted below freezing.
“Salvatore,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “You are sitting in my house. You are eating food paid for by my operations. And you just insulted the woman who bled for my bloodline.”
Marcone’s smug smile faltered slightly as Dominic slowly stood up.
“Dominic, it was a joke—” Marcone began, his hand shifting instinctively toward his jacket.
Before Marcone’s fingers could clear his lapel, Dominic’s hand moved in a blur. A heavy, solid-silver steak knife rocketed across the length of the table, slamming directly through Marcone’s right hand and pinning it to the mahogany wood with a sickening crunch of bone.
Marcone shrieked in agony, blood pooling across the polished surface.
None of the other ten men moved a muscle. They sat like statues, terror etched into their features.
Dominic walked slowly down the length of the table, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets. He stopped beside the screaming capo, leaned down, and gripped the silver hilt of the knife, twisting it a quarter of an inch.
Marcone choked on a sob, his face turning pale gray.
“My wife took seven bullets and didn't make half the noise you’re making right now, Salvatore,” Dominic whispered into the man’s ear. “If you ever speak her name again without bowing your head, I won't use a knife. I’ll use a hacksaw. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes! Yes, Boss, please!” Marcone wept.
Dominic yanked the knife free, wiped the blood on Marcone’s silk napkin, and tossed it onto the table.
“Enzo,” Dominic commanded, turning his back on the bleeding man. “Get him out of my dining room. Clean the floor.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Dominic walked back to the head of the table and took his seat beside me, as if he had merely swatted a fly. He picked up his wine glass and looked at the remaining capos, whose eyes were now glued to the tablecloth.
“Now,” Dominic said smoothly. “Let’s discuss Victor Costa.”
My heart was hammering so violently against my cracked ribs that I thought the sutures would snap. My hands were shaking beneath the table, but I forced my chin up, locked my gaze onto the terrifying men across from me, and refused to look away.
Beneath the linen tablecloth, Dominic’s large hand found mine. His fingers closed tightly around my trembling knuckles, grounding me in the terrifying reality of his world.
And for the first time since the shooting, I realized something that chilled me to the bone:
Dominic Rossi wasn't just protecting me from his enemies.
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He was protecting me from the entire world. But who was going to protect me from him?
***
