Chapter 2 - The Iron Cage of Rossi Manor
The transition from St. Catherine’s ICU to Rossi Manor felt less like leaving a hospital and more like being transferred to a fortress disguised as a historical landmark.
The estate sat behind ten-foot wrought-iron gates in Westchester County, surrounded by acres of dark, brooding pine trees and manicured lawns that vanished into the autumn mist. When Dominic’s black armored SUV rolled through the gates, my stomach churned. Every window was fitted with ballistic glass; every corner of the sprawling stone mansion was monitored by high-definition dome cameras.
Two men in tailored suits—Enzo, Dominic’s heavily scarred second-in-command, and a younger, nervous-looking guy named Mateo—carried me inside on an orthopedic armchair because Dr. Sterling had strictly forbidden any strain on my torso.
They placed me in a massive, sunlit bedroom on the second floor, dominated by a king-sized mahogany four-poster bed with heavy velvet drapes. The room smelled of lavender and old parchment.
Before Dominic could leave to take a call in his study, the door swung open, and Isabella Rossi walked in. She looked entirely different from the elegant, composed woman in the ballroom. Her silver hair was tied back in a loose knot, and her eyes were fierce as she hurried to the bedside, brushing Mateo and Enzo out of the way with a wave of her hand.
“Look at you,” Isabella murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she gently touched my hair. “You saved my life, child. And in return, my stubborn, arrogant son dragged you into a war zone.”
“He married me without asking,” I rasped, leaning back against the plush pillows. “Isabella… why did he have a file on me before the shooting? Enzo said something outside my hospital room. He said if I found out why Dominic already knew who I was, I’d never forgive him.”
Isabella’s hand froze on my arm. A shadow passed over her face—a split second of guilt that she masked with a heavy sigh.
“Dominic carries the weight of an empire, Elena,” she said softly, pulling up a chair. “When my husband died five years ago, Dominic took the throne of the Rossi syndicate overnight. In his world, information is oxygen. Before any catering company is hired for a high-profile event at the Aster Crown, my son’s security detail runs background checks on every single worker. It’s protocol. It’s nothing personal.”
“That’s a lie,” I said, my voice steady despite my exhaustion. “Background checks don’t include deep-dive surveillance photos of me walking out of my mother’s apartment building in Cleveland three months ago. Enzo wouldn’t have warned me if it was just standard hotel security protocol.”
Isabella looked away, staring out the tall arched window toward the gray autumn gardens. “Let him explain it when he’s ready. Right now, your only job is to heal. We have doctors coming in twice a day. Physical therapists starting tomorrow. You are safe here, Elena. No one—not Victor Costa, not anyone—can touch you inside these walls.”
“Safe,” I echoed bitterly. “Or locked in?”
“Both,” a cool voice answered from the doorway.
Dominic stood leaning against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, corded forearms marked by faint scars. His expression was unreadable.
“Isabella, leave us,” Dominic commanded gently, his eyes never leaving mine.
May you like
His mother gave me one sympathetic squeeze of the hand before standing up and walking out, closing the heavy oak door behind her.
Dominic walked slowly to the foot of the bed, resting his hands on the carved mahogany post. “You’re asking questions you aren’t ready to handle, Elena. Focus on breathing. Because tomorrow morning, Victor Costa is going to make his first move, and you need to understand exactly what kind of war you’re standing in the middle of.”
