Chapter 5 - Waking Up in a CageForty-eight hours later, the storm outside matched the turmoil building inside Clara’s brain.
Her eyelids fluttered, heavy and crusted with sleep. Her throat felt as though it had been dragged across broken glass, and every time she tried to draw a breath, a sharp, stabbing agony radiated from her ribs.
She coughed weakly, her eyes snapping open.
The ceiling wasn't the peeling paint of her cramped Queens apartment. It wasn't the harsh fluorescent tiles of a public ward. It was a magnificent, vaulted mahogany ceiling lit by soft recessed lighting, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-slicked skyline of Manhattan.
She tried to move her right arm, but a sudden weight stopped her.
She looked down.
Resting on her ring finger was a massive, impossibly expensive gold ring gleaming with black diamonds.
"You're awake," a deep, rich voice rumbled from the corner of the room.
Clara gasped, her head snapping toward the sound.
Sitting in a leather wingback chair by the fireplace was the severe, dark-haired man from the Aster Crown Hotel. He wore an open-collared charcoal shirt, holding a crystal glass of amber scotch. His eyes were locked on her with an intensity so fierce it made her pulse spike dangerously on the monitor beside the bed.
"Who... who are you?" Clara croaked, her voice like sandpaper. "Where am I? Is this a hospital?"
"This is my townhouse in Manhattan," Dominic replied smoothly, standing up and walking toward the bed. "And I am your husband."
Clara stared at him as if he had spoken in ancient Greek. She blinked rapidly, her foggy brain struggling to assemble the pieces. "My... my what? I was serving champagne at a hotel four days ago! I got shot! I—"
"You took five bullets meant for my mother," Dominic corrected, leaning over the edge of the mattress, his tall frame blocking out the light. "In return, to ensure your absolute protection under the law and guarantee that no one in this city could ever touch you without facing a firing squad, I married you."
Clara’s jaw dropped. She stared at the gold ring on her finger, then up at his deadpan, terrifying expression. "Are you insane?! I don't even know your name!"
"It's Dominic Rossi," he said calmly. "And you are Clara Rossi. My wife."
Before Clara could scream, burst into tears, or demand an immediate divorce, the heavy oak door of the bedroom burst open.
Enzo rushed inside, his face pale, holding a secure satellite phone out toward his boss.
"Boss, we have a code red," Enzo panted, casting a nervous glance at Clara. "Victor Costa just mobilized his entire strike team. They found out she survived the ICU. They’re hitting our Midtown safehouse right now—and they’re using heavy explosives."
Dominic’s eyes turned completely black.
He slowly set his glass down on the nightstand, reached into his holster, and pulled out a custom Sig Sauer P226, checking the magazine with a sharp, metallic click.
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He looked down at Clara, who was staring at him with wide, terrified gray eyes.
"Stay in this bed, Mrs. Rossi," Dominic ordered softly, his voice dripping with lethal promise. "Your husband has a war to finish."
