Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ROSALIA
A heavy, relentless force breaks through my dream.
I’m shaken hard, my body swaying against the mattress as a firm hand grips my shoulder and gives me a sharp, unyielding jostle.
"Rosalia. Wake up."
I groan, swimming upward through layers of deep sleep, my eyelids feeling like lead. I swat blindly at the hand, burying my face deeper into the pillow, but the grip on my shoulder doesn't budge. He shakes me again, rougher this time.
"Come on, sweetheart. Up. We have somewhere to be."
"Stop," I mumble, my voice thick with sleep, dragging the duvet over my head to shut him out.
The duvet is ripped away from my face in one smooth motion, letting the chill of the air-conditioned room hit my skin. I snap my eyes open, a fiery surge of irritation igniting in my chest as I sit up, rubbing my bleary eyes.
"What is your problem?" I bite out, squinting through the dim morning light filtering through the sheer drapes.
My words catch in my throat for half a second. Dominic is standing at the foot of the bed, looking infuriatingly put-together. He’s dressed in a tailored, charcoal-grey three-piece suit that fits his broad frame with deadly precision.
His dark hair is slicked back, his jaw freshly shaved, and he smells like cedarwood and expensive cologne. It’s an absolute offense to nature that a man can look that immaculate when I barely know what year it is.
"Get up," he says, adjusting the silver cufflinks at his wrists without looking at me. "You have twenty minutes to get dressed."
"Where are we going?" I demand, tossing my hair back and glaring at him, my annoyance instantly returning full force.
"Out," he replies smoothly, checking his watch. "Wear something nice. And comfortable."
I sit frozen on the edge of the mattress, my jaw clenching. "Out? That’s all you’re giving me? A color scheme and a vague direction?"
"That’s all you need for now," Dominic says, turning toward the bedroom door. "Fifteen minutes, Rosalia. The car is idling downstairs."
"I am not one of your soldiers, Dominic!" I snap at his back, my chest heaving as anger flares up. "You don't just wake me up at the crack of dawn and order me around like a piece of luggage! Tell me where we are going!"
He pauses at the doorway, resting a hand on the frame, and glances back over his shoulder. A slow, infuriating smirk touches his lips.
"Fourteen minutes, sweetheart."
He steps out and closes the door behind him, leaving me staring at the dark wood, my blood boiling so hot I can barely breathe.
Arrogant, controlling bastard.
If he thinks he can snap his fingers and expect me to jump, he has another thing coming.
I throw off the duvet, march over to the closet, and take my sweet time.
I shower, pick out a high-necked, charcoal-grey tailored dress, carefully button every single fastener, and do my hair with painstaking slowness.
I sit at the vanity and deliberately wait out the clock, checking my phone until a full twenty extra minutes have ticked by.
Only when I am completely satisfied with my defiance do I walk out of the room and head downstairs.
Dominic is standing near the front entryway, leaning casually against the doorframe while reading a document on his phone. When my heels click against the marble floor, he looks up. He checks his watch, his expression completely unreadable, but he doesn't say a single word about my lateness.
Not a scold, not a sarcastic remark.
He simply pockets his phone, opens the heavy oak door, and ushers me outside toward a sleek, blacked-out SUV.
He holds the door open for me. I slide into the leather backseat without looking at him, and he climbs into the driver's side, pulling out of the gated courtyard and onto the highway.
The silence inside the vehicle is suffocating.
I stare out the tinted window, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. Questions are burning at the back of my throat—Where are we going?
Why the rush? What is this about?—but I force myself to bite my tongue.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of asking.
He wants to keep secrets? Fine. He can go straight to hell.
Twenty minutes later, the SUV turns sharply down a concrete ramp, descending into the dark, underground garage of a massive government building. I squint through the window as we pass rows of official vehicles, security checkpoints, and municipal emblems.
My heart drops into my stomach. It’s the city courthouse.
Panic spikes through my blood, sharp and cold. I turn to him, my eyes wide. "What is this? Why are we at the courthouse?"
Dominic cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, his dark eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "We're getting married. Right now."
"Right now?" I echo, my voice rising as shock turns into pure fury. "You bring me here without a word, without any notice? Why didn't you tell me?!"
Dominic scoffs, turning in his seat to look at me, a cold, pragmatic tilt to his lips. "Why would I? It’s not like you have a choice, Rosalia."
Before I can scream at him, he opens his door, steps out into the cool subterranean air, and walks around to my side. He pulls the door open, stretching out an arm toward me, offering a hand to help me down.
I glare at his outstretched hand, every nerve in my body screaming at me to slap it away with all the force I can muster. But as I look past his shoulder, I catch the glint of security cameras and the distant movement of court guards watching from across the garage.
We are in public. The game has already started.
Swallowing down the rage burning in my throat, I place my palm in his, letting his cool, firm grip steady me as I step down onto the concrete.
The second my feet touch the ground, I snatch my hand back, but Dominic merely adjusts his suit jacket, unbothered, and gestures for me to walk ahead of him toward the private elevators.
The ride up to the magistrate's floor passes in a silent, suffocating blur.
As we sit in a quiet, sterile waiting area outside the judge's chambers—surrounded by grey walls, harsh fluorescent lights, and the distant hum of administrative machinery—the initial shock slowly begins to recede, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.
I look down at my hands folded tightly in my lap.
He’s right. It’s not like I have a choice. I never had one from the moment my father traded me away.
But as the reality sets in, a strange, unexpected wave of relief quietly settles over the panic. A small, hidden, sterile courthouse wedding with no guests, no press, and no family... this is a mercy compared to the alternative.
My mind flashes back to my wedding with Luciano—the grand cathedral, the hundreds of fake smiles, the suffocating white dress, and the grand spectacle arranged by powerful men who treated me like a prized cow being paraded before the slaughter.
My father had turned my agony into a high-society media circus.
Here, in this cold, empty room with only a judge and two silent witnesses waiting behind closed doors, there are no cameras. No performative joy. No audience to applaud my captivity.
It’s efficient. It’s clinical. And in our dark, twisted world, it's the quietest victory I'm going to get.
I take a slow, deep breath, lifting my chin as the heavy double doors finally swing open.
The ceremony is quick, practical, and stripped of every ounce of sentimentality.
The magistrate speaks in a flat, monotone voice, droning through the legal jargon and the binding clauses required by civil law. There are no flowers, no soft music, and no tearful toasts.
Just the quiet scratch of a pen against official parchment, two stone-faced security guards serving as forced witnesses, and the ticking of an old wall clock.
Yet, as stripped-down as it is, the sheer intimacy of the small room unsettles me far more than I expected.
Without the distraction of a crowded cathedral, the suffocating grandeur of high-society guests, or my father’s watchful gaze, there is nowhere to hide. Every word spoken feels amplified.
Every shift of Dominic’s shoes against the hardwood floor echoes in the quiet space. When he steps up beside me, his towering presence blocks out the rest of the room entirely.
When the time comes, Dominic doesn't hesitate. He takes my hand, his grip steady and warm, and slides a band onto my finger. I look down, my breath hitching in my throat.
It’s a massive, flawless emerald-cut diamond, heavy and blindingly brilliant under the harsh fluorescent lights. The platinum band feels icy against my skin, a stark, weightless chain wrapping itself around my life once again.
"By the power vested in me," the magistrate says, closing the leather folder on his desk with a dull thud, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Dominic doesn't lean in for a dramatic kiss. He simply turns to me, his dark eyes searching my face with that terrifying, unreadable intensity, and gives a subtle, single nod.
And just like that, it’s done.
No fanfare. No grand spectacle. Just a signature on a piece of paper, a rock on my hand, and a new master. Rosalia Caruso is gone, buried under the weight of a fresh legal document.
I am Dominic Kane’s wife.
Minutes later, we step back out into the dim, subterranean quiet of the courthouse garage. Before I can even reach the passenger side of the SUV, the heavy chime of Dominic’s phone breaks the silence.
He pulls it from his jacket pocket, checks the screen, and his jaw sets into a hard line. "Please excuse me," he says, his tone brief but polite, before turning on his heel and walking several paces away to answer it.
I watch his tall silhouette disappear around a concrete pillar as his low, gravelly voice fades into background murmur.