Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary in Gold Coast
Discharge did not involve a wheelchair rolled to the curb and a yellow taxi.
When Dr. Vance, Dominic’s personal physician, cleared Beatrice for transport forty-eight hours later, she was escorted down a private service elevator directly into the subterranean garage. Three black Cadillac Escalades with bulletproof glass and run-flat tires stood waiting with their engines purring quietly.
Beatrice was dressed in clothes Dominic had ordered for her: oversized cashmere sweaters in deep emerald green, high-waisted stretch denim that fit her generous curves without pinching, and supple leather boots. Everything was soft, expensive, and carried no brand tags.
"I could have gone to my sister’s in Peoria," Beatrice grumbled as Dominic assisted her into the back seat of the middle vehicle, his broad palm steadying her lower back with proprietary care.
"Your sister lives in a split-level suburban house with a glass front door and no perimeter cameras," Dominic said, sliding into the seat beside her and pulling the heavy, armored door shut with a solid *thud*. "The Marcones would have had a sniper on the water tower before your bus crossed county lines."
"You make the world sound like a war zone."
"It is a war zone," he said quietly, his eyes scanning the tinted window as the convoy surged up the ramp and into the rainy Chicago afternoon. "You’ve just been living in the civilian sector until now."
The convoy navigated the slick, gray streets of the city, bypassing the South Side entirely and cutting north toward the Gold Coast. They pulled up before an imposing pre-war limestone mansion fronting Lake Michigan, fortified with discreet iron gates, high stone walls, and manicured hedges hiding state-of-the-art infrared sensors.
Inside, the house was a masterclass in dark elegance. Soaring ceilings with ornate plaster moldings, antique Persian rugs, and roaring marble fireplaces balanced by modern steel accents and floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the churning gray waves of the lake.
"Welcome to the compound," Dominic said, watching her carefully as she took it in.
"Compound? It looks like a museum where people get murdered quietly," Beatrice muttered, clutching her sling-supported arm close to her chest.
A faint smirk played on his lips. "Only in the basement. I keep the upper floors tidy."
A middle-aged woman in a crisp gray apron approached with a warm, welcoming smile. "Mr. Rossi. Signorina Beatrice. I am Carmela. I have prepared the guest suite on the second floor, next to the master."
"Thank you, Carmela," Dominic said. "Bring some tea and the light broth Dr. Vance suggested."
He led Beatrice up a grand mahogany staircase. Her room was massive, featuring an antique four-poster bed draped in ivory silk, a private balcony overlooking the water, and a marble bath that looked like an indoor spa.
"This is ridiculous," Beatrice said, stopping at the threshold. She turned to face him, crossing her right arm over her chest. "Look at me, Dominic. I’m a South Side paramedic who eats lukewarm takeout out of plastic containers at two in the morning. I don’t fit into your silk sheets and marble estates."
Dominic stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her completely. He didn't look down at her with pity or amusement; his gaze was burning, intense, and thoroughly appreciative. His eyes traveled slowly from the swell of her full hips to the curve of her waist, lingering on the strong line of her neck and the stubborn set of her full lips.
"You fit wherever I put you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rich and velvety. "And for the record, Beatrice... you fill out this room better than anyone who has ever stood in it."
Heat rushed up Beatrice’s neck, burning her cheeks. She was used to being invisible—or worse, an inconvenience. When men looked at her, they usually saw an extra two seconds to clear a doorway, or a friend to joke with. But the way Dominic Rossi was looking at her made her pulse flutter wildly beneath her ribs. He looked at her like she was a feast, an obsession, an empire he wanted to claim.
"Stop that," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like I’m something you bought."
Dominic’s expression hardened, the flirtatious edge vanishing into something fiercely possessive. "I didn't buy you. I couldn't afford you if I tried. You stepped in front of a bullet for my blood without asking for a dime. That makes you royalty in this house, whether you like it or not."
He turned on his heel, pausing at the open doorway.
"Rest. Dinner is at seven. If you need anything—anything at all—Carmela is down the hall. And Beatrice?"
She looked up, wary.
"Don't try the front doors. My guards have orders to carry you back inside like a sack of flour if you try to make a run for it."
"I’d bite them," she snapped.
"I know," Dominic said, and the predatory smirk returned. "That’s why I told them to call me first."
May you like
The heavy door clicked shut behind him, leaving Beatrice standing in the quiet, breathtaking luxury of her gilded cage, her skin burning and her mind spinning out of control.
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