Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DOMINIC
Okay, I didn’t think I’d enjoy today as much as I did. It was… amazing.
Rosalia felt different. She smiled, she laughed, she rolled her eyes at me without hesitation. She felt free. And honestly? She’s a terrible cook, but I’m not going to tell her that. She fully believes she’s better than me in the kitchen.
She’s currently snapping her seatbelt in place as I pull the car away from the curb and merge into the quiet weekend traffic.
Most importantly, the morning wasn't a total waste of strategy. When Judge Sterling excused himself during the break, I trailed him down the back hallway. He was on the phone, and from the few sentences I caught, he’s scheduled to meet someone in private later tonight.
"So," Rosalia says, turning in her seat to look at me, her eyes sharp with curiosity. "What did you actually find out when you followed Judge Sterling during the break?"
"He was making a discreet phone call," I tell her, keeping my eyes on the road. "He's meeting someone late tonight. Someone who doesn't want to be seen in a courtroom."
Without taking my hands off the wheel for long, I tap the Bluetooth display on the dash and dial Keane. He answers on the first ring.
"Dominic," Keane's voice comes through the speakers.
"I need you on Sterling's tail right now," I order cleanly. "He's meeting someone later. I want the exact address of the location, and I want to know who walks through that door."
"Got it. I'm on it," Keane replies.
"Keep me posted." I end the call with a press of a button.
Rosalia studies my side profile, her arms folded across her chest. "And what exactly do you plan to do once you find out who he's meeting?"
"Just make sure you're judged fairly," I say smoothly.
She lets out a quiet, skeptical breath, looking at me with a gaze that clearly says she doesn't believe me entirely. She knows how I operate, and "fair" in my world usually involves violence.
"Why does this will matter so much to you, Dominic?" she asks softly, the playful mood from the cooking studio settling into something deeper. "Why are you going through all this trouble for me to get Luciano's money?"
I glance over at her for a brief second, my jaw tightening before I look back at the street. "Because after everything that bastard put you through, you deserve every single thing he left behind. You earned it, Rosalia. I'm just making sure no one steals it from you."
She hums softly, processing my words, but doesn't press the subject any further. She picks up her phone, tapping away at the screen as a quiet silence settles between us in the leather interior of the car.
A moment later, she looks up, breaking the quiet. "I got a call from the magazine yesterday. They want to expand the photo shoot into a full interview."
"I already know," I say plainly, not breaking my gaze from the road.
Rosalia rolls her eyes, mutters something under her breath, and goes right back to her phone.
As soon as I pull the car into the main garage and cut the engine, I unbuckle my seatbelt and start to alight. But Rosalia doesn’t move. She stays in her seat, staring out the front windshield with an intent focus.
I pause, resting one arm on the steering wheel, and turn to look at her. "What's the problem?"
Rosalia turns her head, a daring spark lighting up her dark eyes. "I’m a bit stressed. Let’s drive one of your vintage cars. The one we rode the other day.”
The 1969 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray.
"Alright," I say after a beat, stepping out of the car. "Let's go."
We walk around to the private garage, the automatic doors rolling up to reveal the classic, polished cars sitting under the soft warm lights. I unlock the Stingray, step over to the passenger side, and pull the door open for her.
Rosalia stops right in her tracks, folding her arms across her chest and staring at me. "I'm not sitting over there, Dominic. I want to drive it myself."
I frown slightly. "Rosalia, no."
"Why not?" she challenges, taking a step closer. "The other day… that drive... feeling the wind in my hair, being out there... it made me feel free. I want to actually drive it this time.”
"It's a rare, highly modified classic with a manual transmission, zero modern power steering, and a ridiculously touchy clutch," I state firmly, holding my ground. "It’s hard to handle. You're not driving it."
Rosalia lets out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, her eyes flashing with pure defiance as she steps right into my space. "So you want me to trust your hands on my body in your bed, but you won't trust my hands on your steering wheel?"
The words hit me like a sharp slap to the chest.
I stare down at her, my jaw locking so tight a muscle twitches in my cheek. The absurdity of her logic burns, but the accusation stings even more. I hold her furious gaze for three long seconds, feeling my resolve crack right down the middle.
"Fine," I growl, shutting the passenger door with a metallic thud and tossing her the keys. "Get in."
A victorious smirk touches her lips as she catches the keys and slides into the driver's seat. I round the hood and pull myself into the passenger side, adjusting my broad frame into the tight leather interior.
Within thirty seconds, it becomes glaringly obvious that she has no idea how to manage a vintage manual transmission.
She turns the key, the massive V8 engine roaring to life with a throat-clearing rumble that shakes the entire garage. But as soon as she tries to shift into first gear and release the clutch, the car violently lurches forward three inches and dies with a horrific, metallic choke.
Clunk.
Silence fills the car.
"Gently," I instruct, keeping my voice clipped. "You’re dumping the clutch too fast. Keep your left foot steady while you give it gas."
Rosalia bites her lip, turns the key again, and tries to ease off the pedal.
Jerk.
Stall.
"You're rushing it," I say, my instincts kicking in as I lean over, my tone growing sharper, more rigid. "Listen to the engine, Rosalia! Don't just slam your foot down! Hold the point of engagement, let the gear catch, and then press the accelerator!"
She turns the key a third time, her hands tightening around the steering wheel until her knuckles turn stark white. She attempts to pull forward again, but the Stingray bucks like a wild horse and stalls out for the third time in a row.
"That's enough," I snap, reaching over to grab the keys. "You're going to burn out the clutch. Shift over, I'll drive—"
"Stop bossing me around!" Rosalia snaps, slapping my hand away from the ignition with a sharp crack, her chest heaving as she glares at me with pure venom.
"Stop treating me like one of your men! If you're going to teach me, then actually teach me, Dominic, instead of barking orders like a drill sergeant! "
What?
Is she insane?
Nobody slaps my hand.
Nobody speaks to me like I’m some low-level soldier stepping out of line.
My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache, a surge of pure, volatile fury blinding me for a fraction of a second. I reach over, press the button on the side of her leather seat, and jerk the release, forcing her seat to slide back with a loud, metallic track-snap to give me room.
Before she can even process what's happening, I unbuckle my belt, lean straight across the center console, and crowd her entirely against the driver's side door, trapping her beneath my frame.
"You watch your tone with me, Rosalia," I growl, my voice a lethal vibration against her jaw. I wrap my fingers firmly around the back of her neck, tilting her head up so she has no choice but to swallow the rage burning in my eyes.
"You want to drive my car? You follow my instructions. You do not hit me, and you sure as hell do not scream at me like I'm some dog you can order around."
"I am not one of your soldiers, Dominic!" she snaps back instantly, her chest heaving against mine, zero fear in her eyes—only a fierce, reckless defiance that makes my blood boil hot enough to scorch. "You don't own me. You don’t tell me what to do!"
"You're my wife," I growl, my hand tightening on her neck, my eyes dropping to her mouth. "And right now, you're driving me fucking insane."
"Then do something about it!" she challenges, leaning right up into my space, her breath coming in hot, desperate hitches.
That's all it takes.
The last thread of my restraint snaps cleanly in half.
I crash my mouth down onto hers, smothering her breath with a harsh, punishing kiss that tastes like fire and adrenaline.
She lets out a sharp gasp against my lips, her hands instantly flying to my chest, but instead of pushing me away, her fingers claw into my shirt, dragging me down on top of her.
I reach down, grabbing her thigh, and hoist her up over the center console until she's sitting in my lap in the cramped, tight space of the driver's seat.
The leather creaks violently under our weight.
I yank her pants down her legs in one rough, impatient tear, throwing them onto the floorboards, while her hands frantically tear at the buttons of my shirt.
"You think you can talk to me like that?" I rasp against her throat, my teeth grazing the soft skin near her collarbone, making her arch wildly into my touch.
She gasps, her head tossing back against the headrest, her legs wrapping tightly around my waist, pulling me flush against her wet, agonizing heat.
I don't give her another second to think. I align myself and drive deep into her in one hard thrust that slams her back into the seat, making a breathless, shattered scream echo off the curved windshield.
The space inside the Stingray is suffocatingly tight, every movement amplified by the heat building between our bodies and the dark, violent friction of our anger.
I take her right there against the steering wheel, my hands gripping her hips with bruising force as I establish a relentless pace that rocks the heavy classic car on its suspension.