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

The question burned inside my chest hotter than the bullet fragments lodged near my spine.

Why did Dominic Rossi have a dossier on an impoverished waitress from Ohio long before she ever set foot in New York City?

For three days, I played the part of the compliant invalid. I let Martha dress my surgical wounds, I ate the rich, restorative broths prepared by the estate's chefs, and I did my physical therapy exercises along the sunlit terrace. Every time Dominic entered the room, his eyes sharp and vigilant, I masked my suspicion behind a veil of weary indifference.

He was a ghost in his own house. He was gone before sunrise, leaving behind the scent of black espresso, and returned late at night, smelling faintly of cold rain and cigars. But whenever he came back, he always came to my room first.

It was past midnight when I woke up to a sharp, agonizing spasm tearing through my left shoulder.

A strangled cry tore from my throat as my muscles seized, locking the surgical scars into rigid agony. I gasped, rolling onto my side, clutching my chest as cold sweat beaded across my forehead.

The adjoining door flew open instantly.

Dominic appeared in the doorway, barefoot, wearing only black lounge pants. A semi-automatic pistol was in his right hand before he even cleared the frame. When his eyes locked onto me thrashing against the sheets, the gun vanished onto the bedside table in a heartbeat.

"Clara," he breathed, crossing the room in three long strides.

He didn't ask questions. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his large, warm hands immediately finding the knot of spasming muscle along my shoulder blade.

"Breathe," he ordered softly, his voice a low, steady rumble in the dark room. "Match my breathing. In. Out."

"It... it burns," I choked out, tears leaking down my temples into the pillow. "God, Dominic, it feels like they're tearing it open again."

"It's scar tissue contracting. The nerves are waking up," he murmured. His fingers were surprisingly deft, working with firm, rhythmic pressure into the tense muscle, slowly coaxing the violent knot to release.

I hated how much his touch comforted me. He was a killer, a syndicate boss who commanded an army of cutthroats, yet his hands on my wounded flesh were gentler than any doctor's had ever been.

As the spasm gradually subsided, my breathing slowed, our chests rising and falling in the quiet room. Dominic didn't pull his hands away immediately. His thumb traced the jagged, raised line of an incision along my upper arm—a brutal pink mark that had permanently ruined my skin.

"They're hideous," I whispered into the darkness, staring at the wall.

"They are marks of honor," Dominic said quietly, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn't decipher. "Every mark on your body is a life you saved. My mother's life. You bear the wounds of an angel who stepped between a demon and his target."

I turned my head slowly, looking at him in the dim moonlight filtering through the terrace glass.

His bare torso told a far more violent story than mine. Jagged white lines crossed his ribs; a round, puckered bullet scar sat dangerously close to his collarbone; and down his right side ran a long, vicious slash that looked like the work of a blade.

"Who stepped between you and your demons?" I asked softly.

Dominic's hazel eyes darkened. "No one. In my world, you learn to bleed alone."

The vulnerability in the air was intoxicating, dangerous. It made me bold.

"Why were you watching me, Dominic?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Dominic's hands stilled against my shoulder. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice losing its warmth, turning instantly to stone.

"In your study. Three days ago," I said, holding his gaze, refusing to flinch. "I saw the file on your desk. It had my maiden name on it. And there was a photograph of me taken in Cleveland three years ago. You didn't investigate me because I saved your mother. You already knew who I was before I ever spilled that champagne."

Dominic stared at me, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He slowly withdrew his hands from my back, sitting up straight.

"You shouldn't have looked into my office, Clara."

"Answer the question!" I demanded, pushing myself up onto my uninjured elbow, ignoring the dull ache in my ribs. "Why was I in your files? Did my father owe you money? Is that why you were tracking me? Did you hire me at the Aster Crown just to corner me?"

Before Dominic could speak, the estate's heavy silence was shattered by a deafening, violent explosion from the front gates.

The shockwave rattled the French doors, sending a crystal vase crashing from the mantelpiece. Red emergency sirens instantly flared across the estate, painting the walls in bloody, flashing light.

Gunfire erupted. Heavy, automatic rifle fire echoed across the grounds, accompanied by the ferocious barking of attack dogs.

Dominic was on his feet in a fraction of a second. The gun from the nightstand was back in his hand, his demeanor shifting instantly from the gentle protector to the lethal predator.

"Dominic!" I cried out, terror gripping my throat.

"Stay down!" he roared, rushing toward the adjoining door.

Enzo burst through the hallway door, an assault rifle slung across his chest, his face streaked with soot. "Boss! Two armored vans breached the perimeter fence! They hit the transformer—the security grid is running on backup generators! It's Costa's men!"

"How many?" Dominic barked, pulling a tactical vest from his closet with terrifying efficiency.

"At least a dozen. They're heading for the main house. They know she's here."

Dominic turned toward me. The warmth I had seen in his eyes minutes ago was completely extinguished. In its place was cold, calculating death. He walked over to the bed, grabbed my hand, and shoved a small, heavy silver revolver into my palm.

"Can you shoot?" he asked, his voice razor-sharp.

"I... I don't know—"

"Point at the door. If anyone other than me or Enzo walks through that entrance, empty the cylinder into their chest," he commanded, closing my trembling fingers around the grip.

He leaned down, cupped my face with a hand that smelled of cordite, and pressed a fierce, desperate kiss to my forehead.

"Don't die, Clara. I haven't answered your question yet."