Chapter 3 - Breach in the Dark
The emergency backup lights painted the private suite in an eerie, jaundiced amber glow. The steady, comforting hum of the hospital's central HVAC system died instantly, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence broken only by the frantic, mechanical clicking of my heart monitor.
Dominic didn't turn around. His broad back filled my field of vision, the dark fabric of his ruined tuxedo stretching taut across his shoulder blades as he held his weapon low and ready, aimed directly at the heavy double doors of the suite.
"Stay flat against the mattress," Dominic commanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, absolute whisper. "If the glass shatters, roll under the frame."
"What about you?" I choked out, my fingers curling desperately into the rough fabric of the hospital blanket.
"I'm not planning on dying tonight, Clara," he replied without looking back. "Neither are you. You're wearing my ring now. That means you're expensive."
Despite the terror clawing at my throat, a hysterical, bitter bubble of laughter rose in my chest. Expensive. I had sixty-four dollars in my checking account and a mountain of medical debt, yet here I was, barricaded in a VIP hospital suite with a mafia boss who treated my life like a high-stakes poker asset.
Outside the door, the muffled sound of a scuffle echoed down the hallway—a dull thud, the sharp crack of bone, and then a heavy body collapsing against the linoleum.
Enzo's voice came through the encrypted earpiece Dominic wore, though it was faint enough that I only caught fragments. "...breach... sector four... cleaning crew disguise... armed..."
Dominic pressed a finger to his ear, his eyes never leaving the door seam. "How many?"
"Four at the elevator bank," Enzo hissed back through the comms. "We dropped two, but the other two slipped the stairwell fire door. They’re bypassing the biometric lock on your suite with an override box."
"Buy me thirty seconds," Dominic ordered.
"Boss, you don't have thirty seconds. They've got thermal charges."
The warning was punctuated immediately by a low, subterranean rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. A split second later, a dull orange flash bloomed through the frosted glass panels of the double doors, followed by a concussive blast that blew the heavy oak frame off its hinges.
Wood splinters and drywall dust exploded into the room like a localized snowstorm.
Before the smoke could clear, two figures clad in tactical black gear and wearing night-vision goggles surged through the wreckage, automatic carbines raised.
They didn't even have time to acquire targets.
Dominic moved with a terrifying, predator-like speed. He fired twice—*pff-pff*—the suppressed shots sounding like heavy staples driving into wood. The first intruder jerked violently backward, his tactical vest absorbing the impact before his legs buckled and he slammed into the shattered doorframe.
The second operative pivoted instantly, bringing his carbine around to bear on Dominic.
My instincts, honed by years of dodging chaos and protecting others, overrode my physical pain. Without thinking, I grabbed the heavy plastic water pitcher from the bedside table and hurled it with every ounce of remaining strength straight at the second gunman's head.
The pitcher struck the side of his helmet with a loud thwack, throwing his aim off by crucial inches.
The gunman's weapon discharged into the ceiling, raining down a shower of plaster and acoustic tiles. That microsecond of distraction was all Dominic needed. He lunged forward, closing the distance between them with terrifying grace, and slammed the butt of his pistol square into the operative's temple.
The man went down like a felled tree, unconscious before he hit the carpet.
The room fell deadly silent once more, save for the hiss of escaping steam from a ruptured radiator pipe near the window and the frantic, rhythmic beep of the monitor.
Dominic didn't hesitate. He kicked a discarded carbine away from the fallen gunman's twitching hand, then turned sharply toward the bed, his dark eyes scanning me from head to toe.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths.
"No," I gasped, clutching my ribs where the bandages felt hot and tight. "I'm... I'm okay."
"That was remarkably stupid," Dominic said, though there was a strange, raw edge of respect beneath his reprimand. "Never throw things at a man holding a fully automatic rifle, Clara."
"He was about to shoot you," I shot back, my voice trembling with adrenaline. "And for the record, I’m the one who's supposed to be protected in this marriage. You're failing at the husband job."
A faint, grim ghost of a smile touched the corner of Dominic's mouth for a fraction of a second before vanishing entirely.
Enzo appeared in the wrecked doorway moments later, stepping over the body of the first operative with a grim expression, a smoking Glock in his hand.
"All clear in the corridor, Boss. The backup unit from the Queens docks just arrived downstairs. We secured the perimeter." Enzo glanced at the two bodies on the floor, then at me. "Looks like Costa is getting desperate. He's burning all his assets to get to the girl."
Dominic holstered his Sig Sauer and walked over to the bed, looking down at me with an expression that brooked no argument.
"We're checking out," Dominic said.
I stared at him in horror. "Checking out? I had seven bullets removed from my torso forty-eight hours ago! I can barely stand!"
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"You're not staying in a public facility where Costa's men can walk through the front door with thermal charges," Dominic replied flatly. "Pack her things, Enzo. We're moving her to the estate in Oyster Bay."
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