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

When I walked into the ICU suite, the ventilator had been removed.

Dominic was sitting partially upright against the pillows, an IV drip in his arm and heavy bandages wrapping his broad chest. His color had returned, and though he was visibly exhausted, his hazel eyes were wide awake—sharp, fierce, and drinking in the sight of me like a dying man in a desert.

"You took down Marcone," he rasped, his voice rough from the breathing tube.

I paused by the bedside, crossing my arms. "Word travels fast."

"Enzo told me everything," Dominic said, a faint, proud smile touching his lips. "He said you commanded the boardroom like you were born on the throne. He said Jimmy Valenti nearly pissed himself."

"Someone had to protect your empire while you took a nap," I countered, though my voice softened with relief.

Dominic reached out, catching my wrist and pulling me gently down until I was sitting on the edge of his bed. His large hand moved up to cup my jaw, his thumb softly brushing my cheek.

"You saved my life, Clara," he whispered, his eyes searching mine with raw vulnerability. "In the tunnel. You picked up that rifle and stood over me."

"You did the same for me," I said, leaning into his touch, realizing that I didn't want to fight the pull between us any longer. "We're even now, Dominic."

"We will never be even," he said fiercely. "Because I love you, Clara. Not because of your father. Not because of my mother. I love you because you are the bravest, fiercest creature I have ever known."

My heart hammered against my ribs, tears stinging my eyes.

"You're a stubborn, arrogant monster, Dominic Rossi," I whispered, leaning down until our lips were inches apart. "And I think I love you, too."

He pulled me down, pressing his lips to mine.

The kiss was fierce, desperate, and filled with the promise of survival. It wasn't gentle; it tasted of blood, relief, and an unyielding vow that neither death nor time could sever. When we parted, breathing heavily, the shadow of our unfinished business hung in the room.

"Costa is still alive," I said against his lips.

Dominic's eyes hardened into flint. "Not for long."

Forty-eight hours later, Dominic checked himself out of the hospital against medical advice.

The war reached its climax at an abandoned shipping yard along the Jersey docks. Using Sal Marcone's captured phone, Dominic had baited Victor Costa into believing that the Rossi family was fractured, that Dominic was dead, and that Marcone was ready to hand over the keys to the empire in exchange for his life.

Costa arrived with twenty of his top lieutenants, expecting an easy surrender.

Instead, he walked into a slaughterhouse.

The Rossi syndicate ambushed the warehouse from three fronts. Automatic fire tore through the night, illuminating the rusted shipping containers in strobes of muzzle flash. Enzo led the vanguard with lethal precision, dismantling Costa's private army within twenty minutes of relentless combat.

When the smoke cleared, Victor Costa was on his knees in the center of the warehouse, surrounded by a dozen armed Rossi soldiers.

Costa was a fifty-year-old monster with slicked-back gray hair and cold reptile eyes, but now, bleeding from a shrapnel wound to his leg, he looked pathetic.

Footsteps echoed across the concrete floor.

Dominic emerged from the shadows, dressed in a black wool coat, his hands resting casually in his pockets. And walking beside him, holding his arm with steady grace, was me.

Costa looked up, his eyes widening in disbelief when he saw the two of us standing together.

"Rossi..." Costa spat, coughing up blood. "They said you were dead."

"They lied," Dominic said coldly.

Costa's eyes darted to me, a sneer twisting his face. "And the little waitress. You really married her, didn't you, Dominic? All this bloodshed... for a nobody?"

"She is the Donna of the Rossi family," Dominic said, his voice echoing through the vast rafters like a death knell. "And you ordered seven bullets into her body."

Dominic stepped forward, pulling a heavy black pistol from his coat. But instead of raising it himself, he turned and placed the weapon into my hands.

The warehouse went dead silent.

"He killed your father, Clara," Dominic murmured softly beside my ear, his hand supporting mine. "He hunted your mother. He tried to take your life. The justice of this house belongs to you."

I looked at Victor Costa.

The man who had shattered my childhood. The man who had forced my mother into poverty and terror. The man who had drenched that hotel ballroom in blood.

Costa looked up into my eyes, and for the first time, he saw no fear. He saw only the cold, unyielding judgment of the woman he had failed to kill.

"Please..." Costa whispered, the arrogance finally draining from his face. "Spare me. I'll leave the coast. I'll give you everything—"

"My father's name was Thomas Miller," I said clearly, my voice echoing across the warehouse. "And he sends his regards."