Chapter 1 - The Command That Shattered the Room
"If you touch her again, you won't live long enough to regret it."
The tension in the private VIP suite of St. Catherine Medical Center was heavy enough to suffocate. Dominic Moretti’s voice, though rough and fractured from the smoke inhalation that had nearly claimed his life, carried the weight of an absolute execution order.
Vanessa Bellini froze, her hand still extended toward Dominic’s bed. The diamonds on her fingers caught the harsh fluorescent lighting, looking sharp, cold, and entirely superficial compared to the raw, visceral fury radiating from the man in the bed.
"Dominic, darling, you're confused," Vanessa stammered, her flawless porcelain complexion cracking with panic. She threw a scathing look at Grace, who stood frozen near the doorway, her wrist still throbbing where the heavy-handed security guard had clamped down on her. "This... this nobody was refusing to let my father’s private security team clear the floor. She was interfering with your safety. I was simply having her removed."
"She is my private nurse," Dominic growled. He didn't look at Vanessa. His dark, piercing eyes were locked entirely on Grace’s pale face, tracking the faint purple bruise beginning to bloom on her skin. "And you just put your hands on what belongs to me."
The room went dead silent. The two armed Moretti enforcers guarding the door instantly shifted their posture, their hands moving subtly closer to their jackets. They didn't answer to the Bellini family; they answered to the Ghost of Manhattan—Dominic Moretti.
Dominic held out his hand again, his long, scarred fingers steady despite the monitors chiming erratically behind him. "Grace. Come here."
Grace swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew the rules of the night shift: you don't get involved with the patients, you don't look the monsters of the city in the eye, and you never, ever get caught between two warring mafia dynasties. But looking at Dominic’s burning gaze, she realized she was already in the center of the storm.
She walked past Vanessa, her rubber-soled nursing shoes squeaking softly against the polished marble. When she reached the bedside, Dominic didn't hesitate. He wrapped his large, warm hand around her injured wrist, his thumb gently brushing over the bruise. The contrast was startling—the most dangerous man on the East Coast treating a exhausted nurse with an almost reverent tenderness.
"Did she do this?" Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register as his eyes flicked to Vanessa.
"No," Grace whispered, trying to keep her professional composure. "It was the guard. Mr. Moretti, your heart rate is spiking. You need to lie back down. The blast injuries—"
"Answer me first," he interrupted, his grip tightening just enough to anchor her, but not enough to hurt. "Who touched you?"
Before Grace could answer, Vanessa stepped forward, her expensive heels clicking aggressively. "This is absurd! Dominic, I am your fiancée. Our wedding is in three weeks. You are humiliating me in front of your men for a common hospital worker! My father is outside negotiating with the commission right now to find out who blew up your penthouse!"
Dominic finally looked at Vanessa, his expression turning into a mask of pure, unadulterated ice.
"Then tell your father to stop negotiating," Dominic said softly. "Because I already know who ordered the hit. And if I find out you had anything to do with the child in the other room, Vanessa... a wedding dress won't protect you from me."
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Vanessa gasped, stepping back as if struck. Her eyes darted toward the door, filled with a sudden, sharp calculation that didn't escape Grace’s notice.
"Get out," Dominic ordered. "All of you. Out. Except for her."
