Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Victor Costa
By the end of my first week in the hospital, the physical agony had subsided into a dull, persistent ache, but the psychological trap had tightened around me like a steel vise.
Dominic visited me every single day. He didn't shout, he didn't threaten, and he never raised his voice. He sat by my bed, reviewed corporate reports on his tablet, made phone calls in low, Italian-laced murmurs to men named Enzo and Marco, and treated my hospital room like an extension of his executive boardroom.
My mother called twice from Cleveland, sounding stronger and more lucid than she had in years. She babbled happily about the private nurse attending to her, the luxury suite with a panoramic view of the lake, and how blessed she was that her new “son-in-law,” a successful businessman named Dominic, had stepped in to handle all her medical crises.
Listening to her joyful voice while staring at the cold, calculating mafia boss sitting across the room made me feel sick to my stomach.
On the eighth day, the heavy oak door of my VIP recovery suite swung open without a knock.
Enzo stepped inside first, his hand resting instinctively beneath his suit jacket. Behind him walked Isabella Rossi, leaning on her silver-tipped cane, her silver hair impeccably styled, her eyes sharp and assessing as they landed on me.
Dominic stood up immediately, placing his tablet on the side table. “Mother. You shouldn't be traveling yet.”
“I’m fine, Dominic,” Isabella said dismissively, walking past her son and stopping right beside my bed. She looked down at me for a long, silent moment. Then, to my complete surprise, a warm, genuine smile touched her lips.
“How are you feeling, Elena?” she asked softly.
I swallowed hard, pulling the blanket higher. “I’m... recovering, Mrs. Rossi.”
“Mother,” Isabella corrected gently. “Or Isabella, if mother feels too formal. After all, you took a bullet meant for me. In our family, that makes us blood.”
“I didn't ask to be in your family,” I whispered, my voice trembling with suppressed fury.
Isabella chuckled, a rich, musical sound. “No, you certainly didn't. My son is not known for his patience or his romantic tact. When Dominic decides he wants something—or someone—he tends to bulldoze everything in his path.” She shot a sidelong glance at Dominic, who remained impassively silent.
Before I could respond, the door burst open again.
Enzo spun around instantly, drawing his weapon halfway from his holster before freezing.
A middle-aged man in a rumpled gray trench coat stood in the doorway, panting slightly. He flashed a silver shield before shoving it back into his pocket.
“Detective Miller, NYPD,” the man announced, stepping into the room and ignoring Enzo’s hostile glare. He looked directly at me. “Elena Scott—or I suppose I should say, Mrs. Rossi now.”
Dominic stepped smoothly between the detective and the bed, his broad shoulders blocking the man’s view of me. “This is a private recovery room, Detective. You have no jurisdiction here without a warrant.”
“I don't need a warrant to speak to a key witness in an attempted assassination, Rossi,” Miller snapped, his eyes locking onto Dominic with open hostility. “And you know damn well you had no legal right to slap a marriage license on an unconscious woman twenty-four hours after she was shot.”
“Our marriage is fully legal, registered, and binding,” Dominic replied smoothly, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “If you have questions for my wife, you will submit them through my legal counsel.”
“Stop it,” I interrupted, my voice cutting sharply through the tension.
Both men turned to look at me. I pushed myself up against the pillows, ignoring the sharp pull in my shoulder. I looked directly at Detective Miller.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said, looking back at Dominic. “Leave us.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. He held my gaze for three agonizing seconds, searching for any sign of betrayal, before giving a subtle nod to Enzo and Isabella. “Outside. Ten minutes.”
Once the heavy door clicked shut, leaving only Detective Miller and me in the room, the detective pulled up a chair and leaned forward.
“Listen to me, kid,” Miller said in a hushed, urgent whisper. “You made a massive mistake marrying Dominic Rossi. He didn't marry you out of love or chivalry. Guys like him don't have hearts. He married you because you’re his ticket to legally silencing you.”
“Silencing me?” I echoed, frowning.
“Victor Costa put a two-million-dollar contract out on the person who ruined his hit at the Aster Crown,” Miller said grimly. “The moment Rossi married you, you became his legal property. Under marital privilege laws, a wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband in a court of law. Rossi locked you in a cage so the federal prosecutors can never put you on the stand to testify against him or Costa.”
My breath hitched. The room seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.
He didn't save me, a dark voice whispered in my mind. He weaponized me.
“And there’s something else,” Miller added, pulling a crumpled photograph from his trench coat pocket and tossing it onto my bedside tray.
I looked down. It was a grainy surveillance photo taken six months ago outside a diner in downtown Manhattan.
In the photo, I was walking down the sidewalk carrying a box of groceries.
And walking twenty paces behind me, partially obscured by a newspaper stand, was Dominic Rossi.
May you like
“He’s been watching you for a very long time, Elena,” Miller said softly, tapping the photo. “Long before you ever poured your first glass of champagne at the Aster Crown. You need to ask yourself why New York’s most feared monster was stalking a broke waitress half his age—and what he really wants from you.”
---
Related Stories
