Chapter 6 - Blood on the Hudson
By morning, the grief had hardened into cold, calculating rage.
I didn't scream. I didn't confront him. If there was one thing growing up in poverty had taught me, it was that you never attack when you have no leverage. Dominic possessed armies, judges, millions of dollars, and absolute power. If I accused him now, he would simply lock me away tighter, tighten the perimeter, and cut off my access to Ellen.
I had to be smarter. I had to find that safe. I had to see the file with my own eyes.
At ten o’clock, Dominic knocked on my door. When I opened it, he looked at me with his usual piercing scrutiny, his eyes sweeping over my face as if searching for cracks in the facade.
“You’re pale today,” he noted, stepping inside.
“Just didn't sleep well,” I lied smoothly, keeping my voice level. “Phantom pains in the ribs.”
His expression softened instantly. “We have an appointment at eleven. Dr. Mercer arranged a private MRI scan at his facility in Tarrytown to check the healing around your lung. The convoy is ready.”
A trip outside the compound.
My heart skipped a beat. “Okay. Let me grab a coat.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in the armored Suburban once again. Dominic sat beside me, working on an encrypted laptop, while Enzo sat in the front passenger seat. I stared out the window, watching the bare autumn trees blur past, but my mind was screaming. Every time I looked at Dominic’s hands—those strong, capable hands that had held ice to my wounds—I imagined them sixteen years old, stained with my father’s blood.
“We’ll take Route 9 along the river,” Enzo told the driver over the intercom. “Secondary route. Sweep vehicles haven't reported any chatter.”
“Keep the pace steady,” Dominic said without looking up from his screen. “I don't want Clara jostled.”
*Hypocrite,* I thought, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands until the platinum ring bit into my skin. *Monster.*
We were three miles north of the Mario Cuomo Bridge, navigating a winding, two-lane stretch of highway flanked by steep rock walls on one side and the gray, churning waters of the Hudson River on the other.
Suddenly, the lead escort SUV erupted in a ball of orange fire.
The explosion was deafening. The shockwave slammed into our vehicle, the reinforced suspension groaning as the heavy truck lurched violently.
“AMBUSH!” Enzo roared, drawing his Glock in a split second. “RPG FROM THE RIDGE!”
Before the words had fully left Enzo’s mouth, heavy automatic gunfire began hammering our vehicle like a hail of iron. The bulletproof glass spiderwebbed with white cracks as dozens of rounds struck the windows.
“Down!” Dominic shouted.
He didn't hesitate. He lunged across the seat, grabbing me by the shoulders and dragging me down onto the floorboard, covering my entire body with his own.
The weight of him was suffocating, but as bullets shattered the perimeter and the driver desperately tried to throw the Suburban into reverse, I felt something warm and wet drip onto my neck.
*Drip. Drip.*
“Dominic!” Enzo yelled, firing out of a specially designed gun port in the passenger door. “Rear escort is disabled! They’ve got a roadblock set up behind us! Costa brought a full strike team!”
A heavy caliber round punched straight through the armored roof seam above us.
A sharp gasp tore from Dominic’s throat. His body jerked violently over mine, but he didn't move. He clamped his arms tighter around my head, pinning me against the floor, taking the brunt of the shrapnel and gunfire.
“Stay down,” he grunted through clenched teeth, his breath hot and ragged against my temple. “Clara, don't move.”
“You’re hit!” I cried out, the scent of fresh copper filling the enclosed cabin. My hand was pressed against his back, and when I pulled it back, my fingers were slick with thick, crimson blood.
He had taken a round to the upper shoulder, mere inches from his spine.
The realization hit me with the force of an avalanche. He was doing it again. Just like I had thrown myself over Isabella, Dominic Rossi was throwing his body over mine, absorbing metal meant to tear me apart.
“Driver!” Dominic bellowed, his voice laced with agony and absolute fury. “RAM THE BARRICADE! PUSH THROUGH!”
The driver slammed his foot on the accelerator. The massive engine screamed, and the Suburban surged forward, slamming into the burning wreckage of the ambush vehicle with bone-crushing force. The impact tossed us across the cabin, metal shrieking against metal, but the armored beast didn't stop. It plowed through the blockade, tires smoking, and tore down the open highway toward the safety of the Westchester county lines.
The gunfire faded into the distance.
Enzo turned around, his face pale as he took in the blood pooling on the leather seats. “Boss!”
Dominic slowly pushed himself up, his face gray with shock, his teeth bared in a snarl of pure pain. Blood was soaking through his tailored charcoal jacket, dripping onto his trousers.
Yet, the first thing he did was grab my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice cracking with desperation. “Clara, look at me! Did they hit your chest? Did you tear a stitch?”
I stared at him, my hands covered in his blood, utterly paralyzed by the contradiction of this man.
He was the monster who had participated in my father’s murder.
He was the man who had just taken a bullet to keep me breathing.
“I’m not hit,” I whispered, my voice trembling violently. “Dominic… you’re bleeding out.”
Dominic let out a shuddering breath, his head dropping back against the headrest as his eyes fluttered. A faint, bloody smile touched his lips.
“Good,” he murmured, the darkness pulling him under. “As long as it’s my blood… and not yours.”
May you like
His head lolled to the side, and Dominic Rossi lost consciousness.
***
