The mansion rose above the mountainside like a fortress—stone walls, ten-foot gates, clipped hedges, and not a single flower anywhere. My car coughed once after I killed the engine, then died like it had finally given up on me too.

The storm raged through the night, howling like a dying beast against the mountain.

I didn't sleep. In trauma nursing, the first twelve hours after a major debridement were the most critical. If Dominic’s septic fever spiked past one hundred and four, his brain would begin to swell, and no amount of clean gauze would save him.

I dragged a heavy leather armchair to the side of his bed, placing a bucket of ice water, several clean towels, and a bag of IV fluids I had hung from the frame of a tall iron floor lamp.

Every twenty minutes, I checked his pulse.

Every thirty minutes, I replaced the cold, wet cloth on his forehead.

Around two in the morning, the fever struck back with brutal ferocity.

Dominic began to thrash against the sheets, his body shivering violently despite the intense heat radiating from his skin. Wild, desperate Italian words poured from his lips—names I didn't know, warnings about betrayal, hushed pleas that sounded like ghosts clawing at his subconscious.

“No... Marco... don't...” he muttered, his head tossing from side to side, his left hand blindly clutching at the air. “The docks... it’s a trap...”

I leaned over him, pressing a fresh, ice-cold towel against his face and neck. “Dominic. Stay still. You’re going to tear the packing out of your shoulder.”

He didn't hear me. He was trapped inside a nightmare built from blood and memories.

Suddenly, his arm reached out and caught the front of my scrub top, pulling me down toward his chest with terrifying force. I lost my balance, my hands landing against his hot, bare ribs.

“Don't leave,” he rasped, his eyes wide open, but staring right through me at something in the dark ceiling. “They’re all waiting... for me to fall...”

His voice wasn't the commanding tone of a mafia kingpin anymore. It was the raw, haunting confession of a man who had spent his entire life standing alone on a tightrope, knowing that the moment he slipped, a hundred knives were waiting to tear him apart.

I froze, my chest pressed against his, feeling the thunderous, erratic beating of his heart.

Instead of pulling away, I reached up and placed my cool palm against his cheek, forcing his eyes to focus on mine.

“Look at me, Dominic,” I said softly, but with absolute firmness. “You’re in your house. The room is secure. Nobody is coming for you tonight. I won't let them.”

His dark eyes slowly focused. The wild, frantic haze of the fever began to clear just enough for him to register my face. He stared into my eyes, his fingers tightening in the fabric of my shirt, taking long, ragged gasps of air.

“Nora?” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

“I’m right here,” I said gently. “You’re safe.”

The tension in his massive frame began to thaw. His hand slowly slipped from my top, his fingers brushing against my wrist before falling back onto the mattress. His eyelids grew heavy, and within minutes, the dark storm in his mind settled into a calm, deep sleep.

I stayed sitting on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching his chest rise and fall.

For the first time since I walked into this fortress, I realized something terrifying: Dominic Rossi wasn't just a monster people whispered about in the news. He was a man drowning in a world he built, surrounded by people who wanted him dead, fighting for his life in a room that smelled of polish and betrayal.

When the sun finally broke through the gray clouds at six in the morning, casting warm golden rays across the bedroom floor, the fever broke.

I took his temperature with the digital thermometer from my bag.

Ninety-nine point two.

I let out a long, shuddering breath of relief, sinking back into the leather armchair and closing my eyes for just a moment.

The sound of the heavy bedroom door clicking open woke me instantly.

I snapped my eyes open to find Leo standing in the doorway, carrying a wooden tray with a pitcher of water and clean linens.

The moment Leo’s eyes landed on the bed, he froze.

He looked at the empty IV bag hanging from the floor lamp. He looked at the bloody bandages in the stainless steel tray on the nightstand. And then he looked at Dominic, who was sleeping peacefully, his skin no longer gray, his breathing quiet and even.

Leo dropped the tray onto a nearby table, his stoic, stone-cold face breaking into an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.

“He... he survived the night?” Leo breathed, walking slowly toward the bed.

“His fever broke two hours ago,” I said, rubbing my tired eyes as I stood up from the armchair. “The infection was trapped under his old stitches. I drained it, cleaned the tissue, and started him on broad-spectrum IV antibiotics. He needs fresh fluids every six hours and his dressing changed at noon.”

Leo stared at me as if I had just performed a divine miracle with my bare hands.

“The six nurses before you...” Leo whispered, looking at the blood-stained sheets on the floor. “Two of them were trauma specialists from the best private clinic in the state. They couldn't even get close enough to take his blood pressure without him threatening their families.”

“That’s because they were afraid of him,” I said, pulling my hair back into a messy bun. “I don't have time to be afraid. I have bills to pay.”

Leo looked at me for a long, silent moment. The cold, dismissive disapproval he had shown me at the wrought-iron gate yesterday was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, profound respect.

“Dr. Vance arrived at the front gate five minutes ago,” Leo said suddenly, his tone dropping into a dangerous, low whisper. “He comes every morning at seven to check on Mr. Rossi.”

My eyes narrowed as I remembered the crude, lethal stitching I had cut out of Dominic’s shoulder last night.

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“He’s walking up the stairs,” Leo replied.