Chapter 4
1185 Words
Blood.
It was in his hands. His shirt. His breath.
I knelt beside Dominic as he collapsed on the marble floor, his knees hitting with a sickening thud. For a man carved from control, he looked terrifyingly… human.
“Dominic,” I whispered, cradling his face in my hands. “Look at me.”
His eyes didn’t focus. Just a flicker of something broken. His lips moved without sound.
I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it open—buttons snapping—revealing skin slick with sweat and streaked with crimson.
Not his blood.
Not all of it.
“Dominic, talk to me!” My voice cracked, louder now, echoing off the high ceilings. “What did he do to you?”
His fingers curled around my arm. Not tight. Not controlling. Just… needing.
I’d never seen him need anything before.
“He sent a message,” he said hoarsely. "Bodies. In the street. My men.”
A chill surged through me. “Dante?”
Dominic’s jaw clenched. A tremor rippled through him. “He’s making it personal.”
I looped his arm over my shoulder and helped him up. He was heavier than he looked—muscle and pride, both impossible to carry.
We staggered toward the bedroom, each step a lesson in survival.
~
The bathroom was marble and glass, all sleek opulence. I sat him on the edge of the tub and soaked a towel in warm water.
“Stay awake,” I ordered, pressing it to the blood on his ribs. “Don’t pass out on me.”
His head tipped back, his throat working with shallow breaths.
“I’m not dying, Leona.”
“No,” I snapped. “You’re bleeding in Versace. There’s a difference.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You care.”
I froze. Then pressed harder. “I care about not waking up next to a corpse.”
But my hands trembled. And we both knew it.
~
I cleaned his wounds carefully. Most weren’t deep—just brutal. Evidence of fists, not bullets.
He’d fought someone. Or more than one.
And he’d come back to me.
“Why didn’t you go to a doctor?” I asked, wiping the blood from his jaw.
“I don’t trust anyone else right now.”
I looked up. “You trust me?”
He didn’t answer.
Just watched me.
Like I was a question he hadn’t solved yet.
~
When the bleeding stopped, I gave him water and sat beside him in silence.
He broke it first.
“He killed my men in broad daylight. In front of civilians. No masks. No cleanup.”
“Why?” I asked softly.
“To force my hand,” he said. “To make me strike back. To make me… predictable.” he answered
“And you think not reacting makes you strong?” I questioned
He turned to me, eyes burning.
“No,” he said. “It makes me dangerous.”
~
He didn’t sleep, but he stayed beside me.
Not touching.
Just near.
Like a shadow tethered by something he didn’t want to name.
I watched him from the bed, curled under the sheets, while he stood at the window, staring out at a city made of glass and rot.
His shoulders were tense. His fists clenched. But there was something else.
Guilt.
He hadn’t protected them. His men.
I didn’t pity him.
But I understood.
~
In the morning, I woke to silence.
Dominic was gone again.
But left a note.
[Stay inside. No visitors. No questions.] —D.
The photos from Dante still lay on the coffee table.
I stared at them for a long time.
Then I burned them in the fireplace.
~
I explored again. Not out of boredom—but strategy.
I needed to understand this place. Every room. Every lock. Every camera.
The security system was biometric. Doors sealed without prints or keycards.
But the control panel—tucked behind a false wall in the study—blinked with silent potential.
I wasn’t a hacker. But I wasn’t stupid.
Give me time, and I could crack it.
~
By afternoon, the silence cracked.
The elevator chimed.
I froze.
The cameras would’ve shown anyone coming up.
I wasn’t supposed to have visitors.
But when the doors opened…
It wasn’t Dante.
It was a woman.
Late twenties. Red lips. Heels that clicked like gunshots. She walked in like she’d built the place herself.
Her eyes landed on me, cool and calculating.
“You must be the girl,” she said.
I didn’t move. “Who are you?”
She smirked. “I’m the reason Dante hasn’t killed Dominic yet.”
~
Her name was Sofia Marquez.
Dominic’s fixer. Lawyer. Handler.
And maybe something more.
“I don’t like you,” she said, pouring herself a drink from Dominic’s bar without asking.
I raised an eyebrow. “Noted.”
“But I like what you represent.”
I didn’t reply.
She walked toward me, drink in hand, like a diplomat offering poison.
“You shook him,” she said. “He used to be untouchable. Now he’s… reactive.”
I crossed my arms. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s a warning.” Her voice dropped. “Because if Dante’s watching you, he’ll use you.”
I flinched. She noticed.
She stepped closer, heels echoing across the marble. “And if he uses you, Dominic will burn this city down to get you back. Even if it means losing everything.”
She tossed back the rest of her drink and walked away.
“You’d better decide, Leona,” she called over her shoulder. “Do you want to be the reason he wins—or the reason he loses?”
~
That night, I sat alone in the music room.
No piano.
Just silence.
Dominic came home late.
I heard the door. The footsteps. The breath he held before entering.
When he saw me, he looked… tired.
“I need your help,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
He walked to the fireplace. Tossed in a folder.
Flames licked the edges.
“Dante’s going after the families,” he said. “The old alliances. One by one.”
“And?”
“I need to show strength. But not rage. Calculated dominance.”
He turned to me.
“I need you beside me.”
I stared at him.
“Why?” I asked.
He didn’t lie.
“Because they’re watching. Because you’re the one thing they don’t understand. And because if I let them near you, they’ll tear you apart just to see me bleed.”
My breath caught.
“Are you asking… or ordering?”
“Neither,” he said. “I’m begging.”
~
The next day, we made a public appearance.
At gala. For charity. For reputation. For war.
I wore the black dress.
The one he’d left for me before.
This time, I chose it.
We arrived like royalty—arm in arm, under chandeliers that looked like weapons.
- Writer
