Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOMINIC
The backyard garden has been completely transformed.
Rosalia and Helena spent the entire day putting this together, and I have to give credit where it’s due—they went all out. The sprawling expanse of manicured lawn, usually dark and empty at night, is illuminated by warm, cascading fairy lights strung through the branches of the ancient oak trees.
Long, rustic wooden tables are draped in deep emerald linens, set with polished silverware, crystal stemware, and low arrangements of white roses and dark greenery. The scent of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and rich wine drifts through the night air, carried by the soft evening breeze.
It’s a small, controlled gathering, but a critical one.
Only a few high-ranking members of my empire are present—the men who need to understand, without a shadow of a doubt, that this marriage is a strategic alliance, not a surrender.
We married in total secret to keep the vulture press away, making this dinner the true political statement.
On Rosalia’s side, she only intended to invite her sisters. But word came through my security detail earlier that her father has decided to grace us with his presence, bringing along a few key members of his cabinet. Which is fine by me.
As we step out onto the stone patio toward the garden, I notice the slight, rigid tension in her posture.
She's nervous.
We haven't spent a second together today. I was up and out of the master suite before she even opened her eyes, swamped with business, while she spent her hours glued to Helena’s side, directing the setup.
Now, standing beside me in a fitted black dress that covers her up to her throat as usual, her hands are clutched tightly in front of her. Her breathing is just a fraction too shallow.
I wonder what's going through that guarded head of hers. But Rosalia is a vault—secretive, defensive, and fiercely closed off. I know if I ask her about it now, it will only set her off, so I let her be.
"Smile, sweetheart," I murmur under my breath, offering her my arm as our guests begin to notice us. "The vultures are watching."
She smooths down her dress, takes a quiet breath to steady herself, and places her hand on my forearm as we step down into the garden to welcome our guests and mingle with the crowd that has already arrived.
For the next ten minutes as we move through the crowd and greet everyone, I notice Rosalia becoming increasingly stiffer. Her hand rests on my forearm like a piece of cold marble, her fingers digging into the fabric of my suit jacket every time someone approaches us.
It makes me uncomfortable. I hate not knowing what’s going on in her head, and right now, I want to know more than anything.
I try to tell myself to mind my own damn business, but there is something about Rosalia that makes me want to unearth every secret she’s hiding.
I want to peel off every layer until there’s nothing left to hide.
I hate that there are things about her that I do not know.
Just as we turn away from greeting another guest and telling them to enjoy the night, I lean down toward Rosalia, about to ask her exactly what the issue is.
Before I can get a word out, a loud shriek shatters the low hum of conversation.
"Rosy!"
We both turn toward the edge of the patio. It’s her sisters, accompanied by their husbands—powerful men I recognize instantly from business circles, even if we've never been friends.
I give a brief, respectful nod to the men, while Rosalia's sisters bypass every boundary of high-society decorum and launch themselves into a group hug.
"Rosy! It's so good to see you!"
Rosalia glances up at me, and I immediately read the silent plea in her eyes—she wants to be alone with her sisters.
I pull back slightly, breaking the physical contact, but before I step away, I nod at the women standing in front of us. "Hello, ladies. We haven’t officially met."
Rosalia offers a stiff, tight-lipped smile. "Ladies, meet Dominic."
I immediately hate how she addresses me—just Dominic. No 'my husband,' no warm follow-up or proper introduction. I'm her fucking husband.
She turns to face me, her tone cool and practical. "Dominic, meet three of my sisters: Sienna, Eleonora, and Camilla."
"Nice to meet you, Dominic," they say, greeting me politely enough, though I don't miss the sharp wariness flickering behind their eyes. They're sizing me up, looking for the threat.
I keep my expression smooth and hospitable. "I'm sorry we rushed the wedding on such short notice, but please, enjoy the party."
Their guarded posture softens, a few genuine smiles breaking through. "Thank you, Dominic."
I give Rosalia one last, deliberate look, offering her a brief nod before turning on my heel and stepping away to give them space. I don't get more than five paces toward the bar before Keane materializes by my side like a shadow.
He sidles up next to me, hands thrust casually into his trousers pockets. "Hey, Dom. The Command Council is here."
I groan, rubbing the bridge of my nose as I glance over toward the tables near the garden fountain. "Do I really have to deal with them right now?"
Keane lets out a quiet laugh, adjusting his cuffs. "Afraid so, man. They’re still nursing their bruised egos over not getting an invite to your little spontaneous courthouse swap."
I scoff, watching the group out of the corner of my eye. "Just because I gave them a heads-up about the marriage doesn't mean they needed a front-row seat. Hell, even you weren't there."
"And my feelings are deeply hurt," Keane chuckles dryly, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Come on, humor them for five minutes. They're still essential assets."
I sigh and adjust my suit jacket as we walk over to where the highest-ranking members of my organization are seated. The moment I approach, all three men stand up straight to greet me, their expressions a mix of guarded respect and subtle irritation.
"Boss," Marcus grunts, stepping forward first. He’s my Director of Intelligence and Homeland Security, the man who controls half the government's surveillance apparatus and makes sure our legal fronts stay completely spotless.
Beside him stands Abram, the Minister of Port Commerce and Trade. He's the one who oversees every shipping lane, customs official, and cargo manifest entering the country, ensuring our high-value shipments clear international waters without a single eye raised.
Rounding out the group is Yulian, my Chief of Special Operations—the man who handles the dirty work on the ground when diplomacy inevitably fails.
"Gentlemen," I say, leaning against the edge of the table, my tone smooth but commanding. "I hope the drinks are to your liking."
"The liquor is top-tier, Boss," Marcus says, lifting his glass of scotch in a subtle salute before setting it down hard on the table. "Though a few of us were a little surprised to hear about the ceremony after the fact. A union of this magnitude... we usually expect a seat at the table."
Abram clears his throat, adjusting his silk tie. "Marcus speaks for all of us, Dominic. The Caruso name carries heavy political baggage. Had we known the ink was drying yesterday, we could have aligned our diplomatic and trade fronts to absorb any sudden market fallout."
Yulian doesn't say a word, but his crossed arms and stern jawline echo the exact same sentiment. They’re complaining, flexing their seniority in the only quiet, heavily veiled way they dare.
None of them would ever dream of calling me out directly—they know better than to test where my authority ends and their survival begins.
I look at each of them slowly, taking a measured sip of my bourbon as the silence between us stretches thin. I don't owe them an explanation. I don't owe them an apology.
"My personal affairs are handled on my timeline, not the council's," I say, my voice dropping into a low, uncompromising quiet that cuts right through their posturing.
"The decision was made, executed, and sealed.
It is final, and it is not open for discussion or debate.
Your job isn't to manage my marriage—it's to handle your respective sectors. Am I clear?"
The shift in the air is instantaneous. Marcus’s eye twitches, Abram immediately drops his chin in a swift nod, and Yulian relaxes his stance.
Before the tension can curdle into outright hostility, Keane steps smoothly into the center of the circle, a charming, easy smile plastered on his face.
"All right, gentlemen, let's not waste good alcohol on business talk," Keane interrupts, signaling a passing waiter with a raised hand. "Tonight is a celebration. Let's get another round over here—top shelf for the council."
As the men take their glasses from the tray, an excited shriek echoes across the patio, calling out Rosalia’s name. It isn't particularly loud over the low hum of the crowd and the soft music, but my ears are so finely tuned to her tonight that I don't miss a single syllable.
I turn my head across the garden.
It’s Rosalia’s youngest sister—Daniela, I think—running toward her with open arms. She clearly just arrived at the party. But my eyes quickly bypass the girl and lock onto the figure walking several paces behind her.
Massimo Caruso.
He’s stalking toward Rosalia, his chin set and his shoulders tense, radiating a sharp, volatile authority. Something about his stance instantly puts me off. I don’t like the way he looks at her. I don't like the predator's edge in his stride.
Across the lawn, Rosalia completely freezes. Her body locks up, her shoulders hunching inward as if she's preparing to take a physical hit.
That frozen state is all it takes.
I abandon the council mid-conversation, stepping away from Keane and the men without so much as an apology. I don't give a damn that he's her father—no man is going to make my wife look like terrified prey in my own house. Now her house, too.
I close the distance between us with long, fast strides, arriving at Rosalia’s side at the exact same second Massimo reaches her.
The moment I close the gap, Rosalia sways slightly into my space, leaning her shoulder right against my chest for support. It’s a subtle, instinctive reaction, and I’m fairly sure she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
The weight of her body pressed against mine sends a jolt through my blood, making me even more desperate to tear down anyone who threatens her.
I slide a heavy, protective arm around her waist, pulling her tight against my side as I glare down at Massimo Caruso.
I don’t have any problem with the man on paper.
Technically, I suppose I should be grateful to him for making it so easy for me to secure this marriage with Rosalia. But after seeing the underhanded circumstances surrounding how he handed her over, I lost whatever shred of respect I might have had for him.
I realize now that he treats his daughters like mere property, bargaining chips to serve his own financial and political ends. It’s pathetic.
Massimo cuts his gaze sharply to me, the dark anger swirling in his eyes completely unhidden.
The fact that he has the audacity to look at me like that—especially in public, under my own roof—is laughable.
But I’ll forgive his ignorance for the duration of this conversation. He only knows me from formal business circles and high-level negotiations, where I kept my cards close and put on a calm, agreeable posture to get what I wanted. He doesn’t really know who I am when the gloves come off.
He has a lot of re-introduction and learning to do. Starting today.
I pull Rosalia a fraction closer into my hip, standing tall, and wait in dead silence for him to open his mouth.
"Hello, Mr. Kane," Massimo says to me, his voice clipped and entirely devoid of warmth.
Before I can even respond, he snaps his gaze back to Rosalia, completely dismissing me.
"What is the meaning of this secret wedding?
" he barks, his tone sharp enough to draw blood.
"You robbed me of my right to make a proper political statement out of this union. I expected a public display, not a covert courtroom exchange like some disgraced transaction. You always get things wrong, Rosalia.”
What. The. Fuck!
If it’s even possible, Rosalia stiffens even more in my grip, her entire frame locking up like ice.
I’m starting to think this bastard is the very reason she has been so damn nervous all day. Is it really because of her father? I need to know every painful detail.
As Massimo opens his mouth to continue his tirade, I clear my throat, the low sound cutting through his authority like a blade.
"Massimo..." I say smoothly, not bothering with the formality of calling him Mr. Caruso.
He freezes, looking back at me, but I keep my tone dead cold. "You are speaking to my wife. I don't give a damn how you spoke to her before, but you will not talk to her like that anymore."
His face reddens instantly, his jaw working as if he's about to breathe actual fire. But I couldn't care less about his temper.
He glares at me, his fists clenching at his sides. "A secret wedding wasn't the arrangement, Dominic."
"The arrangement was sealed the moment you handed her over," I remind him, stepping slightly in front of Rosalia. "You all but sold Rosalia to me. What Rosalia and I choose to do after that fact is none of your fucking business."
I’m about to go batshit crazy on this bastard, so I know it’s time to leave.
I give him a tight, dismissive nod. "Now, excuse us, Massimo. We have guests to greet. Make yourself comfortable—but don't get comfortable enough to disrespect my wife under my roof."
Without waiting for a response, I turn Rosalia away from him. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a brief glimpse of her sisters smiling in quiet satisfaction as we walk off, but I don't really care about them. All I care about is the woman pressed against my side and how she feels.
This protective instinct, this absolute urge to shield her, is entirely new to me. For a split second, it almost scares me.
Before I have time to dissect whatever the hell is happening to me, Rosalia looks up into my face.
"Thank you," she whispers softly.
Looking down into her eyes right now—seeing the genuine, vulnerable gratitude shining in those beautiful orbs—I almost lose my fucking mind. A strange tightness grips my chest, and I have to clear my throat just to keep my composure.
"We have a photoshoot tomorrow for the wedding magazine announcement," I say, forcing my voice to stay even.
She nods quietly, agreeing without an argument for once.
I let out a soft sigh, tightening my grip on her waist just a fraction. "Come on. I'd like you to meet my council, and then you can go join your sisters again."
This time, she gives me a small, genuine smile.
And goddamn... it makes me feel like I just hung the fucking moon.
Fuck my life.