Chapter 3 - The Price of ProtectionBy the fourth day, the tube had been removed, leaving Clara’s throat raw and her voice barely above a whisper.
The private floor was locked down tight. Two heavily armed men in dark suits sat outside her door twenty-four hours a day, while a private nurse named Teresa—hired directly by the Rossi family—monitored her vitals every hour.
Clara lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of Manhattan traffic below. Her mind was a chaotic storm of fear and disbelief.
The door clicked open, and Isabella Rossi walked in carrying a vase of fresh white hydrangeas. She wore an elegant wool coat, her silver hair styled immaculately.
"You look better today, child," Isabella said warmly, setting the flowers on the bedside table.
"Mrs. Rossi..." Clara rasped, her voice cracking.
"Call me Isabella," the older woman corrected softly, taking a seat beside the bed and taking Clara’s trembling hand. "Or Mother, if it pleases you."
Clara pulled her hand back slightly, her knuckles white as she gripped the thin blanket. "Why did he do this? The ring... the marriage. I’m just a waitress. I don't belong in your world."
Isabella’s warm smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of deep, ancient sadness. "You saved my life, Clara. You threw your body over mine without knowing who I was. In our world, a debt of blood cannot be repaid with money."
"So he bought me?" Clara asked bitterly, a flash of red-haired defiance breaking through her physical weakness. "He turned me into a hostage to satisfy his honor?"
"He turned you into an untouchable," Isabella corrected firmly. "Victor Costa has killed women, children, and judges to protect his empire. If you were still Clara Evans, the waitress from Queens, he would have had an orderly put potassium chloride in your IV three nights ago. But as Clara Rossi, any attack on you brings the full might of the Five Families down on his head."
Clara looked away, staring out the rain-streaked window. "My mother... Ellen. She's in Cleveland. She needs her medicine. She doesn't know where I am—"
"Your mother has been moved," a deep voice announced from the doorway.
Dominic walked into the room, stepping out of the shadows. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing dark tattoos winding up his forearms.
"Moved?" Clara asked, panic spiking in her chest. "Where?!"
"A private cardiac facility in Vermont," Dominic said, walking to the foot of her bed. "She has her own private suite, two dedicated specialists, and round-the-clock security. Her bills are paid for the next ten years."
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Clara stared at him, feeling trapped in a web of golden chains. "You had no right to touch my family."
"I have every right," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "You are my wife now, Clara. Your mother is my family. And I protect what is mine."
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