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

The truth did not set me free; it built a deeper wall around my heart.

Knowing that the Rossi family was the original architect of my family's ruin poisoned everything. Every meal prepared by the estate's chefs tasted like ash. The lavish clothes Isabella bought for me felt like shrouds. When Dominic walked into a room, I no longer saw just the fierce protector who had held me through the siege; I saw the blood of my gentle, quiet father staining his hands.

"You can't blame Dominic for Marco's sins," Isabella told me two mornings later in the glass conservatory.

She was cutting white hydrangeas, her movements deliberate and graceful. But beneath her aristocratic polish, I could see the sorrow etched into her features.

"He is his father's son," I replied coldly, staring out across the lawn where groundskeepers were repairing the stone wall blasted apart by Costa’s men. "He commands the same army. He uses the same violence."

Isabella set down her pruning shears and turned to face me.

"When Marco ordered your father's death, Dominic nearly killed his own father," she said, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "Dominic drew iron against Marco right in the study you sat in last night. He renounced his inheritance. He left for three years. He only returned when Marco was dying, because if Dominic didn't take the seat, Victor Costa would have slaughtered every Rossi in New York—including me."

She stepped closer, placing a warm hand over my uninjured shoulder.

"My son does not love easily, Clara. He was raised to be a weapon. But when he looks at you, he doesn't look like a Don. He looks like a man terrified that his own soul isn't enough to save the only thing that matters to him."

Her words rattled me, but I refused to yield to the ache in my chest.

Later that afternoon, a medical transport arrived at the estate. My follow-up appointment was scheduled at St. Catherine’s—a necessary examination to monitor the two bullet fragments still resting near my pulmonary artery. Dominic had arranged for an entire surgical wing of the hospital to be locked down exclusively for my visit.

"I am going with you," Dominic stated as we stood in the private garage. He was wearing an armored overcoat, his eyes scanning every guard, every vehicle with relentless paranoia.

"I don't need you to hold my hand, Dominic," I said quietly, turning my face away.

A shadow crossed his sharp features, a momentary flash of hurt that he quickly masked beneath his habitual stone facade.

"This isn't about holding your hand, Clara. Costa suffered a massive defeat at the estate. He is desperate. Desperate men don't plan—they strike violently at any exposed flank."

We climbed into the reinforced Maybach. Enzo took the driver’s seat, while two lead SUVs and a trailing chase car formed a tight, moving perimeter around us as we departed for Manhattan.

The drive was agonizingly silent. Dominic sat beside me, his gaze alternating between his encrypted phone and the side mirrors. Every few minutes, his eyes would flick toward me, lingering on the pale curve of my neck, the slight tremor in my left hand.

I wanted to hate him. I wanted to scream at him for keeping the truth from me, for making me feel safe in the arms of the family that destroyed my childhood. But every time I looked at his chiseled jaw, at the dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes from standing watch outside my bedroom every single night, the anger felt hollow.

"Clara," he began, breaking the silence as we entered the Midtown tunnel. "When this war with Costa is over... if you truly wish to leave, I will not stop you."

My heart skipped an erratic beat. I turned to look at him. "What?"

Dominic kept his eyes fixed forward on the tunnel lights rushing overhead. His jaw was clenched so hard I could hear the grinding of his teeth.

"I will set up an irrevocable trust for you and your mother. Millions. Enough to live anywhere in the world under complete anonymity. I will sign whatever annulment papers you put before me. You will never have to see my face again."

A strange, suffocating tightness seized my chest. It was the offer of total freedom—the very thing I had demanded since waking up in St. Catherine’s.

So why did it feel like a blade twisting in my ribs?

"Why are you saying this now?" I whispered.

Dominic turned his head, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that took my breath away.

"Because keeping you here against your will makes me no better than Marco. And because watching you look at me with hatred is worse than any bullet Costa could ever fire."

Before I could answer, Enzo’s voice shattered the moment like breaking glass.

"BOSS! INCOMING!"

A deafening crash shook the earth as a massive, commercial cement mixer blew through a red light at the tunnel exit, slamming directly into our lead security SUV. The armored vehicle flipped twice, exploding into a fireball that blocked the exit lanes.

The Maybach screeched to a halt, tires smoking against the asphalt.

"AMBUSH!" Enzo yelled, drawing his weapon as automatic rifle fire tore into our windshield, spider-webbing the bulletproof glass into opaque white sheets. "They boxed us in the tunnel!"

Dominic didn't hesitate. He grabbed the back of my coat, throwing his entire body over mine, pinning me down across the leather floorboards as a hail of heavy caliber fire rained down upon the car.

"Stay down!" he roared against my ear.

"Dominic—!"

Through the vibrating chassis, I heard the terrifying whistle of a shoulder-fired rocket launcher.

"OUT! GET OUT NOW!" Dominic screamed, kicking the passenger door open with explosive force.

He dragged me out of the car just as a rocket struck the Maybach's engine block. The explosion threw us across the asphalt into the tunnel wall, the blast wave knocking the wind completely from my lungs.

I scrambled up, coughing through the thick black smoke, looking frantically around the apocalyptic wreckage of the tunnel.

Dominic was kneeling three feet away, his assault rifle raised, firing with deadly precision into an advancing squad of Costa’s mercenaries. He took down two men in seconds, but as he turned to shield me from a flanking shooter, a burst of gunfire cracked from the catwalk above.

Three bullets struck Dominic Rossi directly in the chest and side.

I watched in sheer horror as blood exploded through his overcoat. He stumbled, collapsing to his knees, his weapon clattering across the concrete.

"DOMINIC!"

The world went silent. The anger, the secrets, the guilt—everything vanished in a blinding flash of terror.

I didn't run away. I didn't hide.