BOUND BY BLOOD AND SECRETS / Chapter 6 / 20

Chapter 6 - The Golden CageThe Rossi estate in North Shore, Long Island, was an imposing stone fortress built in the 1920s, surrounded by thirty acres of dense forest and a twelve-foot wrought-iron fence topped with security cameras.

For two weeks, Clara lived inside her private suite on the second floor.

Her days were spent in quiet solitude—undergoing painful physical therapy with a private nurse, staring out at the grey Atlantic Ocean, and trying to piece together the nightmare her life had become.

Dominic rarely visited her during the day. He was a shadow moving through the background of her life—his voice echoing down the grand marble hallways during late-night phone calls, the distant sound of helicopter blades arriving and departing from the rear lawn at three in the morning.

One evening, unable to sleep due to the dull ache in her ribs, Clara wrapped a soft silk robe around her shoulders and walked down the grand curved staircase.

The house was eerily silent. The heavy oak doors of Dominic’s private study were slightly ajar, a warm bar of golden light spilling across the hallway floor.

Clara approached quietly, her bare feet silent on the Persian rugs.

"...the Commission is meeting in Atlantic City on Thursday," Enzo’s voice floated through the crack. "Costa has called for a formal vote to strip your territory in Brooklyn."

"Let him try," Dominic’s voice replied. "The Brooklyn docks belong to the Rossi family. They have since my father died."

"There's a rumor circulating among the captains, Boss," Enzo hesitated. "They're saying you married the girl because she knows where Anthony Moretti hid his offshore ledgers before he died."

Clara froze outside the door, her hand resting against the cold wallpaper.

Moretti?

"Let them talk," Dominic said coldly. "The ledgers don't matter. The only thing that matters is keeping Clara alive until Costa is buried."

"And if she starts asking questions about her father?" Enzo pressed. "She isn't stupid, Boss. She’s going to remember things eventually."

"She was six years old when her father died, Enzo," Dominic said, his tone turning razor-sharp. "She remembers a man named Edward Evans who died of cancer. She doesn't know her real name was Moretti. And she will never know."

Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Edward Evans wasn't my father?

She stepped backward, her heel catching the edge of the rug.