Chapter 2 - The Ring on Cold Skin
The ICU smelled of antiseptic, iodine, and the faint, coppery tang of blood that no amount of industrial scrubbing could ever truly erase.
The heart monitor was a frantic, erratic metronome, clicking against the hollow hush of the trauma bay. A tangle of IV lines snaked into my bruised veins like translucent roots, feeding medication into a body that had already surrendered to shock. Deep beneath the layers of surgical gauze, seven pieces of lead were still buried in my flesh—lodged dangerously close to my ribs, my shoulder blade, and the lower ridge of my spine. The chief trauma surgeon had already informed the hallway that opening me up again right now would kill me on the table. My body simply had nothing left to give.
Dominic Rossi did not seem to care about medical odds.
He stood beside the steel bed, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the monitors. The tailored midnight tuxedo he had worn to the Aster Crown gala was ruined, the front stiff with dark, dried stains where my head had rested against his chest in the speeding car. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendons in his neck looked carved from stone.
Behind him, Father Thomas, an elderly priest whose hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold his small leather-bound missal, looked between Dominic and the comatose girl on the bed.
"Dominic, please," Father Thomas whispered, his voice cracking. "The girl cannot give consent. She cannot speak the vows. In the eyes of the Church, a sacrament performed under duress or incapacity—"
"The state doesn't need her to speak, Father, and neither does God," Dominic said. His voice was dangerously low, a gravelly baritone that brooked no debate. "A legal marriage certificate with power of attorney was signed five minutes ago by a probate judge who owes his seat to my family. You are here to bless the union before Costa's informants in the coroner’s office realize she’s still breathing."
Enzo stood by the reinforced door, his trench coat pulled back just enough to expose the matte-black grip of his sidearm. He checked his watch, his knuckles white.
"Dominic, we have three minutes before the shift change," Enzo muttered. "Costa’s people already know the shooter missed Isabella. Two spotters were just flagged in the south parking garage. If we leave this girl listed as Jane Doe on public hospital intake, a hit team will walk in disguised as orderlies and push potassium chloride into her IV line before dawn."
Dominic stepped closer to the edge of the mattress. Slowly, with an unexpected gentleness that contrasted sharply with the lethal tension rolling off him, he reached out and took my left hand.
My fingers were ice-cold and swollen from fluid retention, my nails pale from blood loss.
He didn't hesitate. From his waistcoat pocket, he produced a heavy, solid gold band engraved with the delicate crest of the Rossi bloodline—an eagle clutching an olive branch and a blade.
He slid the ring over my knuckle. It sat loose and heavy against my skin, gleaming dully under the fluorescent medical lights.
"Dominic," Enzo said again, his voice tight. "Think about what happens when she wakes up. If she ever sees that file in your study—if she figures out who her father really was and why you were watching her long before tonight—she will despise you."
Dominic’s gray eyes never left my face. He leaned down until his mouth was inches from my ear, his breath warm against my chilled temple.
"Anybody who comes for you comes through me," he murmured, his thumb tracing the blue vein in my wrist. "Fight, little waitress. You took seven bullets meant for my mother. The least you can do is stay alive long enough to demand payment."
Father Thomas crossed himself with a shaky hand, whispering the Latin rites of sanctification over our joined hands.
Suddenly, the monitor beside my head let out a piercing, continuous whine. The green line flattened into a stark, unbroken horizon.
"Asystole!" a nurse screamed, bursting through the privacy curtain with a crash cart, followed immediately by two doctors in surgical scrubs. "Clear the room! Get the family out now!"
Enzo grabbed Dominic’s shoulder. "Dominic! Let them work!"
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Dominic didn't step back. Instead, he gripped my hand tighter, leaning over the bed as the doctors prepared the defibrillator paddles.
"Don't you dare die on me," Dominic growled, his voice vibrating with raw fury. "You’re a Rossi now, Clara. We don't die in hospital beds."
