Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DOMINIC
I don't just walk to my study—I storm down the corridor, every single muscle in my body pulled taut like a bowstring, my hands visibly shaking with a chaotic mix of blinding anger and gut-wrenching relief.
Relief. That's the part that terrifies me the most.
If I had been thirty seconds later... if I had taken a different turn... if I hadn't pushed the engine just a little faster on the drive back... Rosalia would be gone.
She’d be locked in the back of that van, dragged off into the dark to God knows where, and that brave little dog would be lying dead on the side of the road.
A fierce wave of gratitude hits me for that tiny, ridiculous creature. Yapper. As small and useless as he seems, he didn't hesitate for a single second. He fought for her. He threw himself straight into harm's way to protect my wife when my own security failed her.
I was flying down that stretch of road, full speed, when I caught the black van pulled over sideways.
My first instinct was to drive right past it and let whatever street filth was happening resolve itself—until my eyes caught the wild flash of dark hair and the fierce, defiant posture of the woman struggling against those men.
My heart had stopped dead in my chest. I almost couldn't believe my own eyes. What was she doing outside the estate grounds? Why was she out there alone?
And then I saw them grab her. I saw her fight back, saw them try to force her into the van, and a rage so hot and violent flared in my chest that I lost all human thought.
God, I was so angry. I wanted to tear those bastards apart with my bare hands.
I slam the heavy oak doors of my study shut behind me, the sharp crack echoing off the high walls like a gunshot.
Keane is already standing near the bar, holding a glass filled with amber liquid. He doesn't say a word as he steps forward and hands it over. I grab it and gulp the entire thing down in one swallow, savoring the harsh, violent burn as it trails down my throat and settles in my chest.
"The guards at the main gate," I growl, setting the empty glass down on the desk with a sharp clack. "Fire them. All of them. Effective immediately."
Keane raises an eyebrow, but I cut him off before he can even think about offering an excuse.
"I don't care what they thought," I snap. "Rosalia is never—ever—to cross those gates alone again. If she wants to step foot outside this estate, they do not stop her, but they damn well assemble a team and follow her steps. Letting her walk out there unprotected was a death sentence."
Keane lets out a quiet sigh, nodding in solemn agreement. "Consider it done, Dominic."
"Next," I order, leaning my palms heavy against the edge of the mahogany desk, "I want every soldier on duty searching the entire estate and sweeping the surrounding tree line.
I want thermal imaging, guards on the perimeter, and scouts on the back roads.
Make sure those three weren't just the advance party for a larger team. "
Keane nods again, pulling out his phone. "I'm making the call now."
While Keane quietly barks orders down the line to our security chiefs, I pace the length of the study, my boots digging into the Persian rug, my mind racing at a hundred miles an hour.
Once Keane ends the call and slips his phone back into his pocket, I turn to him, my jaw locked.
"Let's lay it out. The proxy I took out earlier tonight proved Dante was bribing Sterling to strip Rosalia of her inheritance.
Then, not even two hours later, three masked bastards try to snatch her off the street right outside my front door.
They weren't trying to gut her, Keane. They were trying to take her alive. "
Keane's eyes narrow as he processes the timeline. "You think Dante panicked?"
"I know he panicked," I say, a dark, murderous smile touching my lips.
"I called him right after I killed his proxy and told him I was taking everything.
He knows he can't win in court if Sterling stays clean, so he tried to snatch Rosalia to use her as leverage against me.
He's getting sloppy, he's getting desperate, and he's becoming far more aggressive. "
"Which means we need to lock down every entry point," Keane states. "We double the patrols along the north fence, rotate the shift schedules every four hours so no one gets comfortable, and put a permanent two-man detail outside her bedroom door."
"Make it four," I correct sharply. "And I want custom armored glass installed on the master suite windows by tomorrow afternoon."
We spend the next twenty minutes tightening our security grid, patching every conceivable vulnerability until the estate is turned into an airtight, impenetrable fortress.
When we finally finish laying out the new protocols, Keane steps back, leaning against the edge of the desk. He studies my face for a long, quiet moment, a subtle, knowing glint entering his eyes.
"You're really going out of your way for this," Keane says quietly, shaking his head with a faint smile. "You're in love with her, Dominic."
The words hit the room like a sudden lightning strike.
I freeze, my head snapping toward him, my dark gaze locking onto his with enough heat to freeze a man's blood. "Shut the fuck up, Keane, and get to work."
Keane lets out a rich, hearty laugh, entirely unbothered by my death glare as he holds his hands up in mock surrender and turns toward the door. "Right away, boss. Right away."
Chuckling to himself, Keane slips out of the study, leaving me alone in the echoing silence of the room.
I spend the next ten minutes nursing another glass of scotch, letting the amber burn settle the last lingering traces of adrenaline until I'm certain I'm calm enough to face her.
Satisfied that the edge has dialed back, I set the glass down and walk out of the study.
As I turn the corner into the main hallway, I run straight into Helena. She’s cradling Yapper in her arms, and to my immense relief, the little dog is already back to his usual, chirpy self, his tail thumping ferociously against her forearm the moment he spots me.
"How is he?" I ask, stepping closer and reaching out to gently scratch the soft spot behind his ears.
"The vet just finished looking him over," Helena replies with a warm, relieved smile. "No broken ribs, just a minor bruise. He’s a tough little fighter, this one. I’m taking him downstairs to the kitchen for some dinner and then off to bed so Rosalia can get a full night's rest."
I look down at the small dog who fearlessly took a boot for my wife tonight. I lean in, pressing a brief, firm kiss to the top of Yapper's head. "Good boy," I murmur softly. "I'll make sure you get a massive steak tomorrow."
Helena lets out a quiet, fond laugh, shaking her head as she adjusts her hold on him. "He'll hold you to that, Dominic. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Helena."
I watch her carry him down the corridor until they disappear around the staircase, leaving the quiet hallway bathed in the warm, ambient glow of the wall sconces.
I turn back toward our door, take one slow, grounding breath, and push open the entrance to the master suite. I step into the bedroom, pushing the door shut quietly behind me.
Rosalia is sitting on the edge of the bed in a soft, oversized shirt. She looks up as I approach, her dark eyes reflecting the warm lamplight. The room is quiet, heavy with the lingering echo of everything that happened tonight.
Without saying a word, I cross the space between us and sink down onto my knees right in front of her.
"Dominic..." she whispers softly.
"Let me look," I say quietly, my voice raw as I reach up. My hands are steady now as I carefully gather the hem of her shirt, raising it just enough to expose the white bandage covering her ribs.
I gently peel back the edge of the dressing. The knife wound is clean and shallow—Helena was right—but right below her breast, where the blade grazed her, the skin is inflamed. Surrounding it, dark purple bruising is already blooming across her pale ribs.
My heart constricts painfully in my chest. My thumbs gently trace the uninjured skin around the bruise, my touch as light as feather, making sure there are no deep fractures beneath the surface.
The pads of my fingers graze her other scars. Rosalia tenses slightly under my hands, her breath hitching, but she doesn't pull away. She lets me touch her, letting me examine every mark, every shadow, every single line written into her skin.
I look up, my dark gaze locking onto hers, holding her steady.
"Don't ever hide your scars from me, Rosalia," I say, my voice dropping into a deep, intense rumble. "Never again. I know who put them there. I know what Luciano did to you. And if that bastard wasn't already burning in hell, I would tear him apart and kill him all over again with my bare hands."
A soft, breathless sound escapes her lips—a quiet laugh that dissolves the sharp edge of the room.
Before I can say another word, Rosalia leans down, cupping my jaw with her small, warm hands, and presses her lips to mine.
The kiss is impossibly soft, sweet, and slow, tasting like relief, joy, and an unspoken surrender that settles deep into my chest.
When I touch her, the raw, frantic edge completely vanishes. Our movements are slow, filled with a quiet care that breathes steady life back into the room.
As my hands trace the soft curve of her waist, careful to avoid the tender bruising on her ribs, a deep realization hits me like a sudden wave crashing against a shore.
What I feel right now isn't just dark, possessive desire. It's deeper. It's protective, terrifying, and real.
I care for her. More than I realize.
We drift off to sleep wrapped in each other's warmth, her head resting against my chest, the rhythm of her breathing lulling me into the deepest sleep I've had in months.
I wake up first the next morning as the sunlight streams through the bedroom curtains. Rosalia is still fast asleep beside me. I slip out of bed without disturbing her and head downstairs to the kitchen.