Chapter 2 - The Ghost of QueensThirty-six hours later, the rain had stopped, leaving New York draped in a thick, suffocating fog.
Inside the ICU, the rhythmic hiss of the mechanical ventilator was the only sound disrupting the silence. Clara’s eyelids fluttered. Pain—blinding, white-hot, and tearing—was the first thing that returned to her. It radiated from her chest, her side, and her abdomen, pinning her to the mattress like a iron weight.
She tried to gasp, but the plastic tube wedged down her throat choked her attempt.
"Don't fight it," a voice said.
The voice was deep, smooth, and laced with an authority that seemed to command the very air in the room.
Clara forced her eyes open. Her vision was blurred, double images merging slowly into a broad-shouldered figure sitting in a high-backed leather chair beside her bed. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit now, his tie loosened, his jaw dark with two days of stubble.
Dominic Rossi. The severe man from the ballroom.
"You're in St. Catherine's," Dominic said, his voice calm and unhurried. He reached out, his thumb gently pressing a button on her IV pump to deliver a dose of pain medication. "The tube is coming out in an hour. Your heart stopped twice on the operating table, but the surgeons put you back together."
Clara stared at him, her dark eyes wide with terror and confusion. She tried to move her hand, but her fingers felt heavy, numb, and restrained by soft medical straps tied to the bed rails.
"You're restrained so you don't pull your lines out," Dominic explained. He stood up, towering over her bed, his shadow blocking out the harsh fluorescent light above. "You took seven rounds intended for my mother."
Clara squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of agony washed over her. Memories came back in fragmented, terrifying flashes—the man in the catering coat, the flash of steel, the deafening explosions, the smell of burnt powder and metallic blood.
"The man who shot you is dead," Dominic continued, leaning down so his face was inches from hers. "His boss, Victor Costa, is currently hiding in a fortified mansion in Long Island. He thinks you're a loose end."
Clara shook her head faintly against the pillow, a tear slipping down her pale temple.
Dominic reached out. With surprising gentleness, his rough thumb wiped the tear away.
"You don't need to be afraid of Costa," Dominic murmured. He lifted her left hand, displaying the gold ring gleaming on her finger beneath the harsh hospital lights. "You belong to me now. As far as the world is concerned, you are Clara Rossi. My wife."
Clara’s heart monitor spiked dangerously, its steady hum accelerating into a frantic alarm. She stared at the gold band, then up into Dominic’s dark, unreadable eyes.
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He didn't offer a warm smile. He didn't offer comfort.
"Rest, Clara," Dominic said softly, turning toward the door as a team of alarms began chiming down the hallway. "You're going to need your strength for what comes next."
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