Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Corridor
The private wing of St. Catherine Medical Center had been transformed into an impenetrable fortress within two hours of the shooting. Armed private security guards in black tactical gear stood at every elevator bank and stairwell door, their earpieces humming with static as they monitored perimeter feeds. No doctors or nurses entered Room 402 without being personally escorted by Enzo, Dominic’s imposing, broad-shouldered chief of security.
I was finally weaned off the ventilator tube by mid-afternoon, my throat feeling like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper. Dr. Evelyn Vance, a stern cardiologist with decades of experience, stood at the foot of my bed reviewing my chart while Dominic remained stationed in a leather armchair by the window, his posture rigid and alert.
“Her vitals are stabilizing faster than anticipated, Mr. Rossi, but she is by no means out of the danger zone,” Dr. Vance said, glancing warily at Dominic before looking down at me. “Clara, you suffered three fractured ribs, a lacerated liver, and massive blood loss. Your body took the brunt of high-velocity rounds designed to kill. You need complete rest.”
“Can she speak?” Dominic asked, his voice flat and commanding.
“Briefly, but—"
“Thank you, Doctor. That will be all for now.”
Dr. Vance pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line, but she knew better than to argue with a billionaire who effectively owned the hospital wing through emergency endowment grants. She closed the chart and swept out of the room, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her.
As soon as the latch clicked, Enzo slipped into the room from the adjoining private antechamber. He crossed the floor in silent strides, stopping two paces from Dominic’s chair.
“Boss,” Enzo said, his voice a low gravel rumble. “We checked the perimeter cameras again. A van matching the description of Costa’s cleanup crew was spotted circling the subterranean parking garage three times around dawn. City police are useless—Costa has two precinct captains on his payroll. If we stay here past midnight, we’re sitting ducks.”
Dominic stood up slowly, rolling his shoulders as he looked down at me. The harsh afternoon sunlight filtering through the window caught the sharp angles of his jawline and the faint, dark circles under his eyes.
“Then we move her,” Dominic said without hesitation.
“Move me?” I rasped, my voice sounding like cracking glass. I clutched the rough hospital blanket with my good hand. “Mr. Rossi—Dominic—I can barely sit up. Where could you possibly take me?”
“To my estate in Westchester,” Dominic replied, walking over to the side of the bed and adjusting the motorized headrest so I was propped up at a forty-five-degree angle. The movement sent a fresh spike of fire through my ribs, and I hissed in pain, squeezing my eyes shut. “It has an integrated medical suite, a full-time trauma nurse on staff, and a security perimeter that makes this hospital look like a public park.”
“I can’t go to your house,” I whispered, staring up at him in sheer disbelief. “I have a mother in a Cleveland care facility. I have bills. I have an apartment in Queens with three months of overdue rent and a landlord who threatens to throw my belongings on the curb every Tuesday! I am a catering temp, Dominic! I don’t belong in a Westchester mansion hiding from mobsters!”
Dominic didn’t flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply reached out and gently placed his palm over my trembling hand, anchoring me against the mattress.
“Your mother’s medical bills are already paid in full through a private trust managed by my office as of four o’clock this morning,” Dominic said smoothly. “Her room has been upgraded to a private luxury suite at the Cleveland Clinic under armed guard. Your apartment in Queens is currently being emptied by my logistics team; your personal belongings, your mother’s keepsakes, and your rent arrears have been settled. You no longer exist in the public registry as Clara Hayes, catering temp. You are Clara Rossi, my legal wife. And until Victor Costa is six feet under, you are safer inside my fortress than anywhere else on earth.”
I stared at him, my chest heaving, overwhelmed by a terrifying cocktail of gratitude, fear, and profound confusion.
“Why?” I whispered, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “Why go to this extreme for a stranger who just happened to knock your mother out of the line of fire?”
Dominic’s dark eyes darkened further, a shadow of suppressed history crossing his features. He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his voice dropping into a register meant only for my ears.
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“Because thirty minutes before you took those bullets, Clara... you dropped a tray of champagne glasses while staring at a faded silver locket around my neck. A locket you recognized instantly. Now tell me... how did a girl from Queens know my dead sister’s face?”
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