Chapter 5 - The Velvet Trap
Ten days later, the bandages came off.
The scars left behind were brutal, jagged constellations of pink and purple flesh etched across my torso. Dr. Lucian declared me miraculously stable, though every movement still pulled at the healing muscle. But there was no time for convalescence.
Victor Costa had made his move at the estate and failed. Now, Dominic was going on the offensive—not with bullets, but with psychology.
"Tonight is the annual Solstice Gala at the Plaza Hotel," Isabella told me as she sat on the edge of my bed, watching two Italian seamstresses drape yards of emerald velvet over my frame. "Every family from the Commission will be in attendance. Costa thinks he has Dominic off balance. He thinks you are a crippled, dying hostage hidden away in the country."
"And what are we going to show him?" I asked, wincing slightly as the dressmaker pinned the fabric near my ribs.
Isabella smiled—a cold, regal smile that sent a chill down my spine. "We are going to show him the Donna of the Rossi family. Untouchable. Unbroken."
The dress was a masterpiece of tactical fashion. High-necked, long-sleeved, and crafted from heavyweight silk-velvet that concealed every trace of my dressings, yet plunged daringly at the back, stopping just millimeters above the scar on my hip. Around my neck hung the Rossi family emeralds—a necklace worth more than every hospital in Cleveland combined.
When Dominic stepped into the dressing room, the seamstresses scattered like birds before a storm.
He wore a tailored midnight-black tuxedo, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His dark hair was styled back, his slate eyes scanning me from head to toe. For a long, breathless moment, neither of us spoke.
"You look breathtaking," he said, his voice surprisingly husky.
"I feel like a target dressed in velvet," I countered, lifting my chin.
"You are a target," Dominic agreed, stepping close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. He reached down, taking my left hand and adjusting the gold wedding band that gleamed beneath the chandelier. "But tonight, you stand beside me. You do not look away from Costa. You do not flinch. If anyone asks how you survived seven bullets, you tell them: *Because a Rossi does not die easily.*"
"I'm a Hayes, remember?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Even better. A Hayes and a Rossi combined? God help this city."
An hour later, the black Maybach pulled up to the grand entrance of the Plaza.
The flashbulbs of paparazzi and street journalists erupted like strobe lights as the footmen opened our doors. Dominic stepped out first, offering his hand. I took it, placing my high heel onto the red carpet. Every step sent a dull ache through my hip, but I kept my back straight, my chin high, and my expression carved from marble.
The whispers began the moment we crossed the threshold of the Grand Ballroom.
The room was filled with hundreds of the most powerful people on the eastern coast—governors, judges, hedge fund titans, and the grim-faced bosses of the five crime syndicates. The chatter died down in waves, ripples of shock traveling across the floor as they saw me walking beside Dominic Rossi, unassisted, wearing his family jewels and his wedding ring.
"Look at her," someone whispered nearby. *"They said she was dead."*
*"Seven bullets... she took seven bullets for Isabella Rossi..."*
*"She’s his wife now. God help the Costas."*
At the far end of the room, standing beside a group of corrupt city councilmen, was Victor Costa.
He was a man in his late fifties, thick-necked and silver-haired, with cold, dead eyes like a shark. When his gaze landed on me, his champagne glass froze halfway to his lips. The color drained from his face, replaced by a dark, mottled rage.
Dominic didn't avoid him. With agonizing deliberation, he led me directly toward Costa’s table. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, creating a silent corridor of tension that crackled like static electricity.
"Victor," Dominic greeted, his voice echoing in the sudden hush of the ballroom. "You look well."
Costa forced a thin, oily smile, his eyes darting from Dominic to me, lingering on the heavy gold band on my finger. "Dominic. I had heard rumors that you took a bride. I didn't believe you had it in you to settle down."
"Allow me to introduce Clara," Dominic said smoothly, slipping an arm around my waist, his palm resting protectively against the curve of my hip. "My wife. Clara, this is Victor Costa. An old acquaintance."
Costa bowed slightly, taking my hand. His grip was clammy, his eyes boring into mine with venomous curiosity. "A pleasure, Mrs. Rossi. You look remarkably radiant for someone who recently had... health complications."
I didn't flinch. I held his gaze, remembering the scent of blood on the hotel floor, the pain of the bullets, and the terror my mother had endured for twenty years.
"Good surgeons and a devoted husband work wonders, Mr. Costa," I said, my voice steady, clear, and loud enough for twenty nearby listeners to hear. "And some people simply lack the aim to finish what they start."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the surrounding crowd.
Costa's jaw tightened until a muscle twitched in his cheek. He let go of my hand as if it had burned him.
"Careful, young lady," Costa murmured, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper meant only for me and Dominic. "Pride comes before the fall. You might want to ask your darling husband about the warehouse fire in Detroit ten years ago. Ask him what really happened to the money your father left behind... and who really tipped off the men who pulled the triggers on Thomas Hayes."
Dominic’s reaction was instantaneous.
He didn't draw a weapon. He simply closed the distance between himself and Costa, invading the older man's space until their chests nearly touched. The raw, violent aura radiating from Dominic made the surrounding bodyguards instinctively reach for their jackets—only for Enzo and ten Rossi soldiers to materialize out of the crowd, hands inside their coats, eyes locked on the targets.
"Speak another word to my wife," Dominic whispered, the words so cold they seemed to freeze the champagne in the glasses, "and I will tear your throat out with my bare hands right in front of the mayor. Walk away, Victor. While you still have feet."
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathed. Then, Costa swallowed hard, gave a stiff nod, and turned on his heel, retreating toward the exit with his security detail trailing behind him.
The tension in the ballroom slowly dissipated into awkward murmurs and the rekindling of the jazz quartet. Dominic turned to me, his slate eyes checking every inch of my face for signs of panic.
"Did he shake you?" he asked quietly.
"No," I lied.
Because Costa’s parting words were already burning inside my mind like acid: *Ask him who really tipped off the men who pulled the triggers on Thomas Hayes.*
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Was Dominic Rossi my protector? Or was he the son of the man who sold my father to the slaughter?
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