28"""His mistress was lying in a private hospital room when Dominic suddenly saw his wife gliding past in a wheelchair—and then Clara whispered four words that changed everything.

The private recovery room was silent save for the rhythmic, steady beep of the heart monitor.

*Beep. Beep. Beep.*

It was the most beautiful sound Dominic had ever heard in his life.

The room smelled of antiseptic and ozone. Morning sunlight had begun to filter through the heavy blinds, painting pale gold stripes across the white bedsheets. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving Chicago gleaming under a cold, washed-out dawn.

Dominic sat in an armchair beside the bed.

He had washed his face and changed into clean clothes brought by Leo—a black crewneck sweater and dark trousers. His right shoulder was bandaged beneath the fabric, stiff and throbbing, but he didn't feel it.

He held Clara’s hand between both of his.

Her skin was warmer now. The waxy gray had receded, replaced by a delicate, fragile flush. Her breathing was slow and even, assisted by a thin plastic nasal cannula. The heavy bandages around her abdomen rose and fell with each measured breath.

Dominic leaned forward, resting his forehead against the edge of the mattress.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the sheets. The words were small, stripped of all pride, broken and raw. "I'm so sorry, Clara. I'm sorry."

A faint movement stirred beneath his fingers.

Dominic’s head snapped up.

Clara’s eyelids fluttered. She groaned softly, her brow furrowing in discomfort as the heavy narcotics began to wear off. Her hazel eyes opened slowly, blinking against the gentle morning light.

She looked at the ceiling tiles. Then at the IV pole.

Then her gaze drifted to the side.

And found Dominic.

She didn't scream. She didn't flinch. She simply looked at him with those deep, ancient eyes that had seen through every lie he had ever told himself.

"Dominic," she whispered. Her voice was barely more than a rasp of dry leaves.

Dominic reached for the cup of water on the side table, dipping a sponge swab into it and gently moistening her cracked lips. His hands, which had broken jaws and fired weapons without a quiver, shook violently as he tended to her.

"Easy," he murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Don't try to move. Marcus fixed the bleeding. You're safe. You're completely safe."

Clara swallowed, the cool water easing the ache in her throat. Her eyes moved over his face, lingering on the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks, and the faint smell of gunpowder that no amount of scrubbing could fully wash from his skin.

"Mateo?" she asked.

"In a cell," Dominic said. "Breathing. Waiting for you."

Clara closed her eyes for a long moment. A single tear leaked from the corner of her left eye, tracking down through the fading bruise on her cheek.

"Tommy?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"We're burying him with family honors," Dominic said, his voice cracking. "Saint Patrick's. A cardinal’s mass. His family will never want for anything as long as the Valente name exists."

Clara nodded faintly against the pillow. Then she looked down at their joined hands.

Dominic’s wedding band caught the morning sun.

She tried to pull her hand away.

The rejection hit Dominic harder than any bullet ever could. It felt as though a serrated knife had been driven through the center of his chest and twisted. But he didn't force her. He opened his fingers, letting her hand drop back onto the thin blanket.

"Why are you here, Dominic?" she asked. Her voice was flat. Emotionless. It was the composure that had once comforted him, now turned into a frozen wall between them. "Shouldn't you be with Serena? Her anxiety must be terrible."

Dominic flinched. He dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Serena is locked in a basement," he said quietly. "She was Mateo’s paid creature from the beginning. You were right about everything, Clara. Every single word in that envelope was true."

"I know I was right," Clara said, her eyes staring at the ceiling again. "I didn't write it to be proven right. I wrote it so you wouldn't die like an idiot."

"Clara—"

"Do you know what it felt like?" she interrupted, her voice gaining a sharp, cutting edge despite her weakness. "To sit in that gallery eleven months ago and watch you look at her? To see my husband—the man I gave up my life for, the man whose wars I swallowed in silence—look at a cheap model like she was the center of the universe?"

Dominic could not speak. The shame burned through his veins like acid.

"I spent five years being your fortress, Dominic," she whispered, turning her head toward him, her hazel eyes blazing with a cold, unforgiving fire. "When the feds raided the house, I swallowed the flash drives. When the Castiglione family put a bounty on you, I slept with a pistol under my pillow so you could sleep for four hours without waking up screaming. I was your wife."

"You are my wife," Dominic choked out.

"No," she said. "I was your shadow. And the moment a pretty light walked into the room, you forgot the shadow was what kept your back covered."

Dominic dropped from the chair onto both knees beside her bed.

He didn't care if Marcus Vance walked in. He didn't care if Frankie saw him. The king of Chicago was on his knees, his forehead pressed against the iron rail of her hospital bed, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.

"I was blind," Dominic wept, his voice muffled by the sheets. "I was arrogant. I was a fool who thought he was invincible. I let poison into our home because I wanted to feel something that didn't taste like blood. But it was all garbage, Clara. It was all rot. You are my home. You have always been my home."

Clara watched him. Her face remained still, but her breathing grew shallow.

"Words are cheap, Dominic," she said softly. "You taught me that yourself. In Chicago, debts are paid in blood and action."

Dominic lifted his head. His eyes were red, swollen, but burning with a terrifying, absolute devotion.

"Name the price," he said. "Whatever it is. Tell me what to burn, and I'll burn it. Tell me who to kill, and I'll kill them. If you want me to leave the city, I'll walk away from the syndicate tomorrow and leave it to Frankie. Just don't leave me, Clara. Don't look at me like I'm a stranger."

Clara looked at him for a long, agonizing minute.

Then, slowly, painfully, she reached out her hand. Her fingers brushed against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble and the wet tracks of his tears.

"I don't want you to leave the syndicate, Dominic," she whispered. "I want you to burn Moretti to the ground. I want Mateo to look me in the eye before he dies. And then..."

She paused, her thumb resting against his trembling lower lip.

"...and then you are going to spend the rest of your life earning back the right to touch my hand."

Dominic caught her fingers and pressed his lips to her knuckles, kissing them with the desperate reverence of a dying man kissing a crucifix.