Bound-by-blood-and-secrets

The man in the trench coat was Agent Thomas Vance of the FBI’s Organized Crime Task Force. He had spent four years trying to build a RICO case against Dominic Rossi, and he wasn't about to let a hospital shooting pass without exploiting the chaos.

Vance flashed his badge at the two armed guards blocking Clara’s door, but Enzo—who had materialized in the hallway like a shadow—stepped directly into his path.

“End of the line, Agent Vance,” Enzo said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. “This is a private recovery ward. You need a warrant signed by a federal judge, and even then, my men have strict instructions to check your shoes for mud.”

Vance didn't flinch. He lowered his badge, slipping it back into his coat pocket with a faint, cynical smirk. “I don't need a warrant to check on a civilian material witness to a federal crime, Mr. Moretti. Miss Bennett was shot during an assassination attempt on a high-profile target. That makes her room a crime scene.”

“The crime scene is downstairs in the ballroom where your informants failed to secure the perimeter,” a cold voice echoed down the corridor.

Vance turned his head.

Dominic Rossi was walking down the hall toward them. His movements were unhurried, yet every step carried the heavy, absolute gravity of a man who owned the pavement beneath his shoes.

“Dominic,” Vance greeted, his smile hardening. “I heard you were playing minister last night. Marrying a dying girl in the intensive care unit. Quite the romantic gesture for a man whose last three business associates ended up at the bottom of the East River.”

Dominic stopped two feet away from the federal agent. The height difference was negligible, but the sheer predatory aura radiating from Dominic caused Vance to instinctively tense his shoulders.

“Clara Bennett is my wife,” Dominic said quietly, each word enunciated with crystal-clear menace. “Which means her medical privacy is protected by spousal privilege, and her safety is protected by me. If you or any of your federal lackeys try to step foot inside her room without my express written permission, I won't wait for a courtroom battle. I’ll have my men throw you off the roof.”

Vance held his ground, though a drop of sweat beaded near his temple. He knew Dominic wasn't bluffing. Men like Dominic Rossi didn't make threats; they made schedules.

“You can lock her behind as many armed guards as you want, Dominic,” Vance hissed softly, leaning in close so the guards couldn't hear. “Victor Costa isn't going to stop. Costa knows Clara saw the shooter’s face clearly before she took the bullets. He has a contract out on her inside this hospital. You can’t protect her twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

“Watch me,” Dominic replied.

Vance stared at him for three long seconds, realizing he wasn't going to get near the room today. He adjusted his trench coat, stepping back. “Enjoy your wedding night, Rossi. Corpses make terrible conversationalists.”

As Vance turned and walked away toward the elevators, Dominic didn't watch him leave. He turned his attention to Enzo.

“Double the guard inside the room,” Dominic ordered. “Put two men behind the one-way glass, and swap out the nursing staff. I want everyone assigned to this floor vetted by our own internal medics. No one touches her IV bag without my personal sign-off.”

“Already on it, Boss,” Enzo said, pulling out his phone. “And what about Victor Costa?”