Bound-by-blood-and-secrets

The rooftop helipad of St. Catherine Medical Center was swept by a howling wind off the East River.

A twin-engine AgustaWestland helicopter idled with its blades spinning furiously, kicking up dust and loose gravel into the night air. Two Rossi enforcers held the perimeter with assault rifles raised, firing blind suppressing shots down the stairwell access door.

Dominic carried Clara out onto the tarmac, shielding her body with his own against the rotor wash.

He pulled open the cabin door and gently placed her inside the leather seat, strapping her in securely before climbing in beside her and slamming the door shut.

“Take off!” Dominic yelled to the pilot over the headset intercom.

The helicopter lifted off the pad with a violent jolt, banking sharply away from the hospital as the Manhattan skyline fell away beneath them.

Through the cabin window, Clara looked down.

Below them, three police cruisers and a dozen unmarked black vans were converging on the hospital entrance. The Costa syndicate’s assault had been broken. The empire Victor Costa had spent twenty years building was crumbling into ash in a single night of fire and blood.

Clara turned her head slowly, looking at the man sitting beside her.

His face was hard, carved from granite and violence, yet as he looked over at her to ensure she was breathing, his eyes softened with a look of terrifying, absolute devotion.

“You’re safe now,” Dominic said quietly, reaching out to take her hand once more.

Clara looked down at the heavy platinum ring on her finger. She had gone into the Aster Crown Hotel ballroom a broke, exhausted waitress trying to pay for her mother’s heart medication. She had walked out—carried out—as the wife of the most feared man in New York.

She didn't smile. But she didn't pull her hand away either.

“What happens now, Dominic?” she whispered.