Chapter 3 - The Cold Kitchen and the Scalpel
Dr. Rossi arrived eight minutes later, breathing hard and clutching his medical leather kit, his face drained of blood from Matteo’s hurried escort. The dining hall had cleared under Dominic's quiet, lethal command; the capos and lieutenants had been dismissed to the formal parlor, leaving only Dominic, Clara, and the heavy silence of the cavernous dining room.
""Get her out of that dress,"" Dr. Rossi muttered, setting his instruments on a silver side table. ""Velvet fibers are bonding with the ruptured blisters. If we don’t debride and clean this immediately, sepsis will set in by morning.""
Dominic drew a silver folding knife from his breast pocket. Clara flinched as the blade caught the light, but Dominic merely slid the blunt edge beneath the cuff of her sleeve, slicing the emerald velvet with surgical precision up to the shoulder. He peeled the ruined cloth away with hands so steady they didn't cause her a single tremor of additional pain.
When the dress fell away, the doctor let out a low hiss.
It wasn't just the oven burns.
Along Clara’s shoulder and ribs were dark, yellowing bruises—the unmistakable shape of hard, bony fingers digging into soft flesh. Clara kept her eyes averted, but Dominic went entirely still. The air around him dropped into sub-zero frost.
""Where did those come from?"" Dominic asked, his voice a lethal whisper.
""It was just... moving the heavy crates in the cellar,"" Clara lied quickly, her teeth chattering from shock. ""The preserves for dinner. I dropped one.""
""My mother keeps the keys to the cold cellar,"" Dominic said, staring directly at the thumb-shaped contusions on his wife’s collarbone. ""She locked you in, didn't she?""
Clara didn't answer. Her silence was a scream in the quiet room. For months, Beatrice had made it her personal mission to remind Clara of her place. Clara was the daughter of a degenerate gambler who owed millions to the family; to Beatrice, she was nothing more than a stray dog Dominic had taken pity on, a peasant who had no right to share the Moretti name. Beatrice had made sure Clara spent her days scrubbing floorboards and hauling stock, systematically firing any maid who dared offer the young Mrs. Moretti assistance.
Dr. Rossi sprayed an antiseptic wash over the burns. Clara cried out, her back arching off the chair as blinding agony tore through her nervous system.
Instinctively, her small, uninjured right hand reached out, searching for purchase. Dominic didn't hesitate. He took her hand in both of his, letting her small fingernails dig into his hardened knuckles until skin broke. He didn't flinch. He leaned in close, his dark eyes locking onto hers, holding her gaze like an anchor in a raging storm.
""Look at me, Clara,"" he ordered, his voice remarkably steady. ""Only at me. Squeeze as hard as you need to. I’ve got you.""
Tears streamed down her cheeks, washing away the light foundation she had worn to cover her exhaustion. ""It hurts, Dominic. It hurts so much.""
""I know. Hold onto me. It ends tonight. I swear to you on my father's grave, no one in this house will ever lay a finger on you again.""
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Across the hallway, standing behind the arched double doors of the library, Beatrice watched through a sliver of bevelled glass. Her face was contorted with disgust. Seeing her powerful, unyielding son kneeling at the feet of an impoverished nobody was an intolerable humiliation. She pulled the burner phone from her pocket, dialed the nine-digit sequence from memory, and pressed it to her ear.
""Silvio,"" Beatrice whispered into the receiver. ""The time is now. Dominic has lost his mind over the girl. His focus is completely broken. Hit the north terminal docks tonight. Strip him of his shipments before he wakes up to what's happening.""
