Chapter 11 - Isabella
Dominic’s room feels… smaller, oppressive. It’s dimly lit and the faint scent of antiseptic cling to the sheets. I’ve spent the last two days trapped in his room, watching over him, waiting for him to wake up.
And now—finally—he stirs.
Dominic was dying.
At least, that was what it felt like as I watched Charles drag his limp, blood-soaked body toward the waiting car. His face was paler than I had ever seen it, his breaths shallow and uneven, as if each one took every ounce of strength he had left. My own hands were slick with his blood, sticky and warm, clinging to my skin like some kind of morbid reminder that this was real—that the man who always seemed untouchable was now teetering on the edge of death.
"We need to move—now."
Charles’ voice was sharp with urgency as he wrestled Dominic into the backseat of the black SUV, his usual controlled demeanor fraying at the edges.
I moved to follow, heart pounding, but Charles whirled on me.
"This isn’t your place, Isabella." His eyes were hard, his tone clipped. "You shouldn’t even be here."
"He’s hurt because of me. I’m not going anywhere."
Charles releases a sharp breath, his gaze shifting between me and Dominic’s unconscious form. Frustration lingers in his expression, but beneath it, there’s a trace of reluctant understanding.
"Fine," he muttered, yanking open the driver’s side door. "But don’t get in the way."
I barely heard him as I climbed into the backseat, pulling the door shut behind me. The car reeked of blood and gunpowder, the tension inside unbearable. Dominic slumped against the leather, his head lolling to the side, and I reached out without thinking, my fingers brushing against his clammy skin. Too cold.
"Stay with me," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
His only response was a shallow breath.
The ride back was agonizing, filled with silence except for the harsh wheeze of Dominic’s breathing. Charles drove like a man possessed. I kept my hands pressed to Dominic’s wound, applying pressure as best I could, but the blood kept coming, staining everything it touched. It felt endless.
Every few seconds, I glanced down at him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, searching for any sign that he was still with me. His lashes fluttered slightly, but his eyes never opened.
By the time we reached the house, a doctor was already waiting.
The Castellano estate felt eerily silent as the doctor worked, stripping Dominic of his ruined shirt and assessing the damage with practiced efficiency. The sight of his bare skin— marked with old scars, wounds from a life spent in violence—was something I’d seen before, yet it unsettled me in a way I couldn’t ignore.
"He’s lucky," the doctor murmured, his expression grim as he threaded a needle. "Another minute, and this could’ve ended very differently."
I didn’t let myself think about that.
Instead, I stayed close, watching every movement, absorbing every word. The antiseptic stung my nose, the harsh scent clashing with the lingering traces of Dominic’s cologne, still faint on his skin. The doctor stitched him up with steady hands, but my own trembled in my lap, clenched together so tightly my nails bit into my palms.
Charles stood across the room, watching me. His stare was emotionless, but his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. Then, after a long moment, he exhaled and muttered, "You care about him."
I flinched slightly, looking up.
"I can see that." His voice wasn’t accusing—just observant. "Don’t make me regret this."
I didn’t answer, but I didn’t have to. Because there was no turning back.
A low groan escapes Dominic’s lips as his eyelids flutter open, his brows furrowing in the dim light. His breathing is uneven, his movements sluggish, but when his gaze finally lands on me, something inside me snaps.
“You’re awake.” The words rush out of me, barely above a whisper. Thank God.
Dominic blinks slowly, as if trying to focus, then smirks—the bastard actually smirks.
“Barely.” His voice is rough, his lips dry and cracked. “You look worse than I feel.”
I let out a sharp breath, a mix of laughter and relief.
“You shouldn’t joke,” I say, because I almost lost him. “You almost…” My voice catches, and I don’t finish the sentence.
His gaze softens slightly, and before I can react, his fingers brush against my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. His touch is light, but it burns all the same.
“I’m still here, Isabella.”
And damn him, because the way he says it, my name—soft, steady—makes me believe it.
Dominic tries to sit up, and I immediately push him back down.
“You’re unbelievable,” I snap, reaching for the fresh bandages. “You could’ve died, and now you’re acting like nothing happened.”
He chuckles, wincing slightly as he moves. “I’m not dead, am I?”
I glare at him. “You’re not invincible, Dominic.”
A pause. Then, softer, “I know.”
The admission surprises me, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I focus on peeling away the old bandage, my fingers careful as I clean the wound. His skin is warm under my touch, solid and real, and I hate how much it steadies me.
“How many times?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t pretend not to understand.
“Too many to count.” His tone is casual, but I hear the weight beneath it.
“But this time… it was different.”
A touch of hesitation crosses his face. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then—
“This time, I had something to lose.”
I finish bandaging him, my hands slower than they need to be, lingering against his skin as if grounding myself in his warmth—proving to myself that he’s still here. That I haven’t lost him.
Dominic’s body is warm beneath my fingers, solid despite the raw wound beneath the fresh bandages. His breathing is steady but rough, each inhale just a little too shallow, a little too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to show how much it hurts.
I need to pull away. Put distance between us before I do something reckless.
But I don’t.
Instead, I hesitate. My fingers graze along the ridges of his abdomen, just above where the bullet tore into him, where the bandages now hold him together. My voice is quiet, but I force myself to speak.
"The painting." The words are hesitant, uncertain. "You took it to the pier.”
Dominic tenses instantly, his eyes trying to avoid mine. The shift is subtle, but I feel it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. His usual calm, effortless mask is back in place, distant and untouchable.
"It's better if you don't know." His voice is flat, firm. A warning.
I swallow hard. “I want to understand.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. After a few minutes of waiting for an explanation, I sigh. But then—he exhales, slow and measured, like he’s debating whether to trust me.
Finally, his voice comes, quieter than before, laced with weariness.
"That painting…" He pauses, his gaze distant. “It was bait… it symbolizes something to the Delgados and I thought it was a good way of getting back at them.”
“Why do you need to get back at them?”
Dominic’s eyes meet mine, “Because they took my family away from me.”
His words settle between us.
My breath catches.
For the first time since I met him, Dominic Castellano isn’t just the ruthless cartel kingpin. He isn’t just the lethal, dangerous man who holds power over everything—including me.
He’s more than that. In the end, he’s just another wounded soul, like the rest of us.
And suddenly, I realize—this is why he’s like this. The walls. The indifference. The relentless control.
It’s all because of what he’s lost.
A deep, painful ache swells in my chest.
I shouldn’t want to reach for him. Shouldn’t crave the urge to ease the stress etched into his face, to tell him he hasn’t failed. That whoever he lost wouldn’t have blamed him.
But I do.
Instead, I whisper, "I’m sorry."
The space between us shifts at my words, crackling with an energy that’s impossible to ignore. I need to step away. Our first kiss was dangerous, but it could be counted as a mistake. But if we do it again, if we let ourselves fall into this, it won’t be an accident anymore.
But I don’t move.
And neither does he.
Dominic’s fingers graze my wrist—barely a touch—but it sends a wildfire through me, burning up my veins, leaving me raw, exposed. His grip lingers, slow, measured, as if testing how much I can take before I break. Before I surrender.
His gaze moves to my lips, then back to my eyes, as if he’s craving the same thing I am.
And then, in one slow movement, he steps closer, his fingers hovering just above my shoulder before finally settling there. His touch is hesitant at first, as if giving me a chance to pull away. But I don’t.
His lips brush against mine, featherlight, testing. A breath, a pause—then it shifts. His hands slide down, gripping my waist, pulling me into him. The kiss deepens, unraveling from hesitant to something hungry, something consuming. It’s no longer soft; it’s demanding.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, his tongue sweeping in, parting my lips, deepening the kiss until I feel him everywhere. His grip is unforgiving, desperate, consuming.
I give in. My hands tangle in his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer, needing more, needing him. But then—his wound.
For a split second, I pause, my fingers splaying over his chest as if I can hold him together, as if pressing gently against the bandages can somehow erase the pain, the damage.
But Dominic doesn’t give a damn.
He growls against my mouth—a low, feral sound—and his grip tightens on my waist, dragging me closer. His fingers press into my hips, guiding me forward, urging me to move, to take, to want. I nearly climb into his lap, my body instinctively following where he leads, but the moment my weight shifts, he tenses.
A sharp hiss leaves his lips, his body tightening beneath me. Pain.
“Fuck.” He mutters, pulling back just enough for our foreheads to press together. His breath is hot against my skin, his voice thick, strained.
I realize what I’ve done—the wound. The very reason I’ve been tending to him, the very thing that’s supposed to keep me from letting this happen.
“Dominic,” I whisper, my pulse erratic, my heart hammering against my ribs. A wave of guilt crashes over me, tightening my chest. “You’re hurt, I—”
His grip on my hips tightens, his fingers digging in, stopping me from pulling away.
“I don’t give a damn,” he growls, his voice thick with frustration, with need. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since our kiss.”
The confession slams into me, stealing my breath, making my fingers tremble against his chest.
His next words are worse.
“If it wasn’t for this fucking wound, I’d have you right now, Isabella.”
I inhale sharply, heat rushing through me like a wildfire.
His voice drops lower, darker, rough with pure, unfiltered want. “I’d have you screaming so hard everyone hears. So they know you’re mine.”
Mine.
The word sinks into my skin, embedding itself so deeply I can’t tell if I want to fight it—or let it consume me.
Heat flares in my cheeks, a deep, traitorous blush spreading across my skin, down my neck, blooming low in my stomach. The words are blunt and filthy but I want them to be true.
Dominic watches me with knowing eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He sees what I’m feeling. He knows.
And he wants me to act on it.
His fingers tighten on my waist, his grip firm, possessive. He shifts beneath me, the tension in his body evident, like he’s barely holding himself back. Like restraint is a battle he’s already losing.
I should say something. I need to stop this before we cross a line that neither of us can come back from.
But I don’t.
Instead, my fingers twitch against his chest, my breath shallow, my pulse wild. I want to push him back down. I want to feel his hands roam. I want to give in.
And he knows it.
I see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way he watches me—hungry, impatient, demanding.
His lips part, as if he’s about to give voice to the dirty thoughts I can already see in his eyes.
But before I can decide—
A sharp knock on the door.
“Isabella.”
Charles’ voice, clipped and annoyed. “We need to talk. Now.”
The world jerks back into focus and I freeze. So does Dominic.
Our breaths are still ragged, our bodies still too close, too warm, too wanting.
His fingers flex against my waist, as if debating pulling me back in.
His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, flicker to my lips before he exhales sharply.
“Fucking timing,” he mutters under his breath.
I press a trembling hand to my lips, still swollen from his kiss. My heart is pounding, my skin is burning.
I’m still aching.
Dominic looks up at me, his frustration evident. His wound, his exhaustion, the interruption—it’s all fighting against whatever just happened between us.
But it did happen. And we both know it.
Another knock, harder this time.
Dominic sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “You better go before Charles breaks down the damn door.”
I pause. For just a second.
Because I already want more.
But then I step back, forcing myself to breathe.
I reach for the doorknob, but before I turn it, Dominic’s voice stops me.
“Izzy.”
I glance over my shoulder. Izzy. He’s never called me that before, but I love it.
His gaze is still locked on me, dark and hardened.
“This isn’t over.”
My pulse skips, heat flares, and I hate how much I want that to be true.