Seven bullets were still lodged inside my shattered flesh when Dominic Rossi made me his wife.

Two weeks later, the doctors decided I was stable enough to be moved.

"Stable" was a generous term. My ribs still felt like broken glass whenever I breathed too deeply, and the two bullets resting near my spine cast a constant, dull throb across my lower back. I walked like an old woman, leaning heavily on a chrome cane, supported on my other side by a stern, silent nurse named Martha who had clearly been instructed not to answer any of my questions.

The transfer didn't happen in an ordinary medical transport. A convoy of three heavily armored black SUVs carried me out of Manhattan, crossing into the wooded, sprawling seclusion of the Hudson Valley.

When the wrought-iron gates swung open to reveal the Rossi estate, my breath caught. It wasn't merely a house; it was a fortress masquerading as a neoclassical manor. Towering limestone walls, manicured gardens surrounded by high stone perimeters topped with discreet razor wire, and armed men in tactical gear patrolling the tree line with German shepherds.

"Welcome home, Clara," Isabella Rossi’s voice greeted me the moment Martha wheeled me through the towering double oak doors.

Isabella looked entirely different from the terrified woman I had tackled to the ballroom floor. Dressed in an ivory cashmere sweater and pearls, she carried herself with effortless aristocratic elegance. Yet when her dark eyes met mine, all that composure cracked.

She crossed the marble foyer in hurried steps, kneeling beside my wheelchair without a single care for her dignity.

"Oh, my brave girl," she whispered, her hands gently framing my face. Her palms were warm, trembling slightly. "Look at what they did to you. Look at what you took for me."

"Mrs. Rossi... please," I stammered, feeling wildly out of place amidst the glittering crystal chandeliers and oil paintings. "You don't need to kneel."

"Call me Isabella," she insisted, kissing my forehead. "You gave me my life, Clara. There is nothing in this house, nothing in this world, that my son or I could give you that would ever equal what you gave up that night."

"I just did what felt right," I murmured.

"You acted with honor," a deep voice cut in from the grand staircase.

Dominic descended the steps, looking impeccably tailored in a dark charcoal suit. His cold hazel eyes scanned me from head to toe, taking in my pale skin, the hospital blanket over my lap, and the way my knuckles were white against the armrests.

"Is the east wing prepared?" Dominic asked his mother, his tone businesslike.

"Everything has been arranged as you asked," Isabella replied, standing up and smoothing her sweater. She looked between Dominic and me with a knowing, complicated expression. "Clara needs rest, Dominic. No interrogations. No family business."

"She will rest," Dominic agreed. He walked over, stepped behind the wheelchair, and took the handles from Martha. "I'll take her up."

My heart jumped into my throat as his large hands took control of the chair. The scent of him—expensive cedarwood, clean linen, and a faint hint of gunpowder—wrapped around me like a territorial claim. He pushed the chair smoothly across the marble and into an elevator lined with polished brass.

As the elevator doors closed, leaving us in intimate silence, I stared straight ahead.

"My mother called me yesterday," I said quietly, the hum of the elevator filling the space between us. "From the clinic in Cleveland."

"Did she?" Dominic asked.

"She was crying. She said the hospital assigned her a private suite, a dedicated nurse, and that her surgeries were fully scheduled. She thinks I won a corporate scholarship through the catering company." I tilted my head back, meeting his downward gaze. "You lied to her."

"I told her what she needed to hear to keep her heart from giving out," he countered smoothly. "Would you prefer I told an ailing woman that her only daughter was shot seven times and is currently married to a syndicate boss whose enemies want to flay her alive?"

I bit my lip. He was right, and that made me angrier. "She asked when I was coming to visit."

"When your wounds heal. When the security perimeter is absolute. Not before."

The elevator chimed, opening into a vast, sunlit master suite on the third floor. French doors led out to a stone terrace overlooking the Hudson River. A massive king-sized bed dominated the room, dressed in slate-gray silk sheets. A fireplace crackled in the corner, chasing away the autumn chill.

Dominic wheeled me to the center of the room. "This is your room."

I looked around. There was only one bed.

"And where do you sleep?" I asked, my voice tight.

Dominic pointed toward a set of double mahogany doors connecting to an adjoining room. "My study is through there. My bedroom is beyond it. The door between us remains unlocked."

"I want it locked."

Dominic took a step closer, towering over me until his shadow engulfed my lap. His hazel eyes were dark, unyielding.

"Listen to me carefully, Clara. Three nights ago, Costa’s men tried to intercept the medical delivery coming to St. Catherine’s. Yesterday, an unidentified drone was shot down over the southern perimeter of this estate. You are alive because I am three seconds away from you at all times. The door stays unlocked."

I felt the walls closing in. The luxury of the estate wasn't a gift; it was a gilded cage designed to remind me that my old life had been entirely eradicated.

"I am not your property, Dominic," I whispered, meeting his fierce glare.

A flicker of something dark and ancient flared in his eyes. He leaned down, placing his hands on the armrests of my wheelchair, trapping me between his broad shoulders.

"You wear my ring. You sleep under my roof. My blood covers the cost of every breath you take. You are not my property, Clara," he whispered against my ear, his breath warm and dangerous against my skin. "You are my responsibility. And in my world, we protect what is ours until our last breath."

He straightened up and walked toward his study. But as the heavy mahogany door swung open, my eyes caught something inside his private office.

Sitting on his massive mahogany desk was a thick, faded manila folder. Stamped across the front in red ink was a single word: *MILLER*.

Beside it lay a photograph.

Not a picture of me taken after the shooting. It was a photograph of me from three years ago, laughing in the rain outside my community college in Cleveland.