Chapter 4 #2
I stare at him, completely lost for words. I don’t understand him. I don’t get him at all. A profound wave of relief washes over me—knowing I won't have to endure marital rape or survive another husband who treats my body like his property and refuses to recognize the word no.
But the lightning-fast speed with which he agreed leaves my head spinning. He sounds like a man with actual morals, a concept practically unheard of in our world.
Or is this just a display? Does he have a hidden angle I'm missing?
"Your fifth term," Dominic speaks up, breaking the sudden quiet as he redirects my attention back to the screen. "Public affection only when necessary. What kind of public affection are we talking about? Kisses? Holding hands?"
I clear my throat, an unexpected warmth flushing across my neck and cheeks.
"Anything necessary in public," I answer, keeping my voice as clinical as possible. "If we’re required to kiss to keep up appearances, we will. But only when it's absolutely necessary."
"Okay. That’s reasonable." He pushes himself up off the sofa, drawing up to his full, imposing height. "Is that all?"
"Are you sure?" I ask, my voice laced with suspicion as I look up at him. "You’re really agreeing to all my terms?"
Dominic nods, looking down at me with unbothered composure. "If it'll put your mind at rest, I'll sign a damn contract. Just draw it up."
I stare at him for a beat, taken aback by how easily he offers it, before shaking my head. "No... it’s okay. Your word is fine."
He turns on his heel and heads straight for the bedroom door.
"Wait," I call out, sitting up straighter. "Don't you have any terms of your own? Anything you want to share?"
Dominic pauses at the doorway, resting a hand on the frame. He turns his head back to look at me, a lazy, slow smile spreading across his face.
"No," he says smoothly. "I'm good."
With that, he walks out, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.
What the hell just happened?
I sit frozen on the edge of the bed, my mind racing in a hundred different directions. It makes no sense. A kingpin in this underworld doesn't just hand over total autonomy and agree to a celibate marriage without asking for a single condition in return.
Is he playing a long game? Is this a psychological trap?
My head feels like it's about to explode from the endless spiraling thoughts. I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep breath, before pushing myself off the bed. I need to get out of this space. I haven’t stepped foot outside this room since he brought me here this morning, and the walls are suddenly feeling way too tight.
I grab my phone, and slip out of the bedroom into the hallway, desperate for a quiet walk to clear the fog in my brain.
I haven't gone more than twenty paces before I round the corner and nearly collide with Helena. She's carrying a stack of fresh linens, but as soon as she sees me, her face lights up with a genuine, warm smile.
In a house filled with heavy mahogany, armed guards, and suffocating tension, that simple expression feels like a breath of clean air. It’s exactly what I need.
"Rosalia," she says softly, setting the linens on a decorative side table. "I was just about to check on you. Where are you off to?"
"Nowhere in particular," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. "I just need to walk. My head is... crowded."
Helena gives an understanding nod, her eyes full of quiet empathy. "Would you like a tour? It's easy to feel lost in a place like this."
"I'd love that," I reply, unable to hide the faint relief in my voice.
"Wonderful! I love showing off the estate." She offers a light chuckle, motioning for me to follow her down the grand hallway.
For the next hour, Helena leads me through the vast, sprawling property, turning what could have been an overwhelming fortress into something surprisingly human. She doesn't just show me rooms; she gives me the practical heartbeat of the place.
She starts with the East Wing, walking me past the library—pointing out which armchairs get the best morning light—and down to the private conservatory, where fresh lavender and basil bloom in sunlight filtered through arched glass.
"If you ever need a minute to yourself where no one will bother you, come here," she whispers, winking. "The guards hate the humidity, so they rarely linger in the conservatory."
As we descend the spiral grand staircase toward the ground floor, Helena covers the everyday necessities that make a house run. She shows me the main kitchen, a towering stainless-steel space run by a quiet, efficient head chef named Marco.
She explains the meal times, adding with a warm hand on my arm that if I ever want something off-menu, or just a cup of tea at two in the morning, the pantry is always stocked and I am free to help myself.
"Dominic's staff works for the estate, but they are here for you now, too," Helena explains as we stroll past the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the inner courtyard gardens.
"If you need laundry done on a specific schedule, or prefer certain soaps, just tell me. You're not a prisoner here, Rosalia. This is your home now."
She walks me through the security stations subtly, pointing out where the guards rotate shifts without making it feel like a lecture on house rules. She shows me the secondary exits, the private study, the sunroom, and even the small art gallery tucked away in the west corridor.
Throughout the entire walk, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. In the Caruso household, and during my years with Luciano, women in my position were viewed through a lens of total paranoia.
Servants were either paid informants, terrified observers, or cold sycophants who judged my every breath. I expected Dominic's house manager to treat me with cold suspicion—or at the very least, carefully monitor what I said to report back to him.
But Helena is completely different.
She speaks to me with natural, unforced warmth, asking about my favorite flowers, my favorite tea, and whether the temperature in the master suite is to my liking.
She doesn't probe into the rumors about Luciano.
She doesn't look at me like I'm a Black Widow waiting to strike.
She treats me simply like a person who deserves comfort and respect.
By the time we loop back toward the central foyer, the tight coil of anxiety in my chest has loosened significantly. For the first time since I stepped foot into Dominic’s domain, I don't feel entirely alone.
Looking at Helena's kind, steady eyes, a quiet thought takes root in my mind: in a sea of ruthless men and bloody politics, Helena might just be someone I can actually trust.
"How long have you known Dominic?" I ask softly, my curiosity finally getting the better of me as we pause near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the courtyard. "How did you end up here?"
Helena lets out a rich, warm laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, it’s quite a story. I used to be a combat medic for one of Dominic’s private operations years ago. High-risk stuff, dark corners of the world you don't read about in papers."
She looks out at the garden, a fond memory softening her features. "I patched him up after a heavy firefight in Bogota—literally kept his heart beating on the floor of an old warehouse. After saving his life, he pulled me out of the line of fire and brought me straight into his inner circle."
She smiles gently, looking back at me. "I live here at the estate because, truthfully, there is nowhere safer on this earth for me to go. People see the formidable boss, but to me? Dominic is the kindest person I know. He protects his own with everything he has."
I stare at her, trying to process the word kindest being used to describe the man who commands an empire of blood and steel.
As we continue walking, Helena slips into sharing small, practical glimpses of Dominic's habits—the kind of quiet details that no ledger or intelligence file could ever give me.
"If you're going to live with him, you might as well know how his mind works," she says, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes.
"He wakes up at five in the morning every single day without fail.
Doesn't matter if he went to sleep at four.
And don't ever try to offer him cream or sugar—he takes his coffee black enough to melt paint. "
I find myself smiling faintly, keeping pace beside her.
"When he's pacing the top-floor balcony at midnight, leave him be," she continues, pointing up toward the grand staircase.
"That means he's pulling apart a problem in his head.
And whatever you do, don't throw him a noisy, chaotic dinner party.
He hates crowded rooms when he eats. Give him peace, quiet, and a good steak, and he's satisfied. "
She pauses beside a tall vintage grandfather clock in the hallway, covering her mouth as a giggle escapes her.
"What?" I ask, catching the sudden shift in her mood.
"I shouldn't tell you this," Helena chuckles, leaning in closer.
"About two years ago, a copper pipe burst in the main kitchen.
Instead of letting me call a professional plumber, Dominic decided he was going to fix it himself with a wrench and sheer arrogance.
Ten minutes later, he came marching into the foyer completely soaked from head to toe, holding a broken pipe while three inches of water flooded the entire ground floor. "
A sudden, sharp laugh bursts from my throat before I can stop it. "No way. Dominic flooded his own house?"
"Soaked to the bone!" Helena laughs, her shoulders shaking. "He stood right where you are standing now, completely dripping, and swore the pipe was defective!"
Standing there in the sunlit corridor, listening to her recount the image of a drenched, frustrated crime lord, the tight coil in my chest completely undoes itself, and I laugh until my stomach aches.