Chapter 3 - Shadows in the GardenThree weeks blurred into a grueling cycle of midnight medical checks, silent dinners in the east wing, and tense, charged conversations in Dominic's study. Isla quickly learned that the Ashford estate was a nexus of underworld politics. Couriers arrived at odd hours, men in tailored suits whispered in the hallways, and the hum of encrypted radio frequencies hummed constantly from the basement security hub.
Yet, amidst the chaos, an unspoken intimacy had forged between the mafia boss and the trauma nurse. Dominic began requesting her company even when his wounds didn't require medical attention. They would sit by the fireplace—Dominic reading geopolitical analyses, Isla grading Marco’s history papers while keeping a watchful eye on his heart rate.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday night.
The security alarms didn't blare; they clicked softly, a silent red indicator flashing on the wall panel in the hallway.
Isla froze, pen hovering over a notebook. Dominic was out of his chair in a single, fluid motion, sliding a heavy Beretta from a hidden holster beneath his desk before she could even draw breath.
"Get in the panic room behind the bookshelf," Dominic ordered, his voice sharp, stripped of all warmth.
"No," Isla said, standing up and blocking his path. "Your stitches were checked this morning, but a sudden movement will tear the left latissimus suture. Give me the gun."
Dominic stared at her as if she had lost her mind. "Are you insane? There are intruders on the grounds."
"And you are bleeding internally if you overexert yourself. Sit down, Ashford!" she hissed, her eyes blazing with a fierce, reckless authority that commanded obedience even from a monster.
Before Dominic could argue, the study door kicked open with a thunderous crash.
Two masked men rushed through the threshold, weapons raised, clad in tactical black gear bearing the insignia of the Chicago Syndicate—Dominic's fiercest rival, the Moretti family.
"Drop it, Ashford—"
Before the intruder could finish his sentence, Isla didn't think. Instinct, raw and primal, took over. She grabbed the heavy crystal decanter of scotch from the desk and hurled it with terrifying precision straight into the lead gunman’s visor.
The man staggered back, disoriented. Dominic didn't hesitate; he lunged forward, sweeping the second intruder’s legs out from under him and driving the butt of his pistol into the man’s temple with a sickening crunch. The room descended into absolute silence.
Dominic stood over the unconscious bodies, breathing heavily, a thin line of red blood seeping through his white undershirt where his sutures had strained. He slowly turned his head to look at Isla.
She stood amidst the broken glass, her hands trembling slightly, her chest heaving.
Dominic walked toward her, stepping over the fallen assassin. He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping the side of her face. His thumb brushed away a smudge of soot on her cheek.
"I told you," Dominic whispered, his voice dangerously soft, "they have teeth."
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"And you," Isla whispered back, her heart pounding against his palm, "are the worst patient I have ever had."
A humorless, dangerous smile touched the corners of Dominic's mouth. "And you, Isla Monroe, are the only woman in Chicago who just declared war on the Morettis with a whiskey decanter."
