CHAPTER 6
865 Words
The ride back was silent.
Clara sat in the backseat of the black car, her hands trembling softly in her lap. Dominic sat beside her, quiet, brooding, his white shirt stained with someone else’s blood. Gusto drove, eyes on the road, while Runnip sat in the passenger seat, stealing glances at his sister in the rearview mirror.
Clara hadn’t said a word.
Her mind was still trapped in the warehouse, in the smell of rust and fear… but every time she closed her eyes, she remembered him—Dominic Petrov, walking through the shadows like a storm. His hands cutting the rope, his voice steady, his arms catching her.
And his words.
> “Because no one touches what’s mine.”
She swallowed.
The car stopped.
---
Runnip helped her into the penthouse—Dominic’s. He insisted she rest there. Gusto had already disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something about tea and cold packs.
Dominic stood by the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“You should sleep,” he said, not looking at her.
She ignored the bed behind her. “You said… I’m yours.”
Now he turned.
His gaze met hers—burning, unreadable.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. Then paused. “Or maybe I did.”
She blinked.
“Are you always this confusing?” she asked, her voice still hoarse.
He walked over to her, slow. Measured.
“I’ve always been clear,” he replied, stopping just close enough. “I don’t care if you hate me, or don’t trust me. But if anyone lays a finger on you again, they won’t have fingers left.”
Clara looked up at him, eyes wide, her breath caught between fear and something she couldn’t name.
“I don’t need protecting,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “But you have it anyway.”
Silence fell between them.
Not the awkward kind.
The heavy kind. The kind where a line is being drawn. And maybe crossed.
---
Outside the room, Runnip leaned against the wall, arms folded, listening in.
Gusto stood beside him, a faint smirk on his lips.
“She’s going to break him,” Gusto muttered.
“She already has,” Runnip replied.
She woke up to the sound of rain tapping gently against the tall windows.
Clara blinked, realizing she wasn’t in her apartment.
The sheets beneath her were silky. The scent in the room was unfamiliar—leather, cologne, and something dark. It took her a moment to remember:
Dominic.
The kidnapping.
The rescue.
Her body ached in places she didn’t expect, and her mind was still foggy with memories she wished she could erase. She sat up slowly, only to find a warm robe neatly folded at the edge of the bed and a note in clean handwriting:
“If you’re hungry, come downstairs. The security system is armed, you’re safe. – D.”
She stared at the ‘D’ for a second longer than she should have.
---
She walked down the spiral staircase, wrapped in the robe, her hair a little messy, barefaced and quiet.
Dominic was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, frying eggs.
Frying eggs.
Dominic Petrov. The second mafia boss. Gusto’s deadliest partner.
Making breakfast like a husband.
He didn’t look surprised to see her. “You sleep alright?”
Clara walked in slowly, arms still wrapped around herself. “No nightmares.”
He nodded, passing her a plate without a word. She took it, sat down, and they ate in silence. No questions. No apologies.
Just peace.
Until she broke it.
“Why did you come for me?”
Dominic set his fork down. “Because it was you.”
“You hardly know me.”
His gaze flickered up to hers. “I know enough.”
She swallowed. “You keep saying things like that.”
“Because they’re true.”
She stared at him. “You didn’t just come to rescue me, did you?”
His jaw clenched. “No.”
She stood. “Then tell me.”
He didn’t move.
“I said tell me, Dominic.”
Finally, he walked to her, stopping just a breath away. He looked down, his voice low, rough. “You’re not just someone to me, Clara. You’ve never been.”
Her breath hitched.
He reached out, not touching her—just hovering.
“I don’t do this,” he whispered. “I don’t explain myself. I don’t chase. I don’t care. But with you—” He shook his head, as if frustrated at himself. “I care.”
A long silence passed.
She stepped closer. Barely. “You’re dangerous.”
“So are you,” he murmured.
And then—without thinking—she reached up and touched his jaw, gently. He didn’t flinch. Just closed his eyes for a moment, like her touch was something sacred.
---
Upstairs, Runnip peeked from the railing. “They’re not going to kiss, are they?”
Behind him, Gusto leaned casually against the wall, sipping his drink. “They better not. I’ve got bets running.”
- Writer
