Chapter 7 - Blood on the Marble
Harper sprinted out of the sunroom, Leo following close behind her.
In the foyer, three men in bloody suits were supporting Dominic. His face was deadly pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. His white shirt was soaked in dark, crimson blood pouring from a jagged wound on his left side, just beneath his ribs.
"Dominic!" Harper screamed, rushing down the stairs.
"Harper, stay back!" Marco yelled, trying to block her. "It’s not clean!"
"Get out of my way!" she snapped with a fierce, terrifying authority that made Marco instantly step aside.
Harper dropped to her knees beside Dominic as he collapsed onto the marble floor. The smell of copper and gunpowder filled the air.
"Harper..." Dominic gasped, his breath coming in ragged, shallow spurts. His hand, slick with his own blood, reached up and grabbed her wrist. "You... shouldn't see this..."
"Shut up," she cried, tears blurring her vision, but her hands moved with fast, clinical efficiency. She ripped open his buttoned shirt, exposing the bloody wound. "Mrs. Gable! Bring clean towels, hot water, and the medical kit from the pantry! Leo, go upstairs and stay in the study!"
"Harper, I can help—" Leo offered, pale.
"Study! Now!" she commanded.
For twenty agonizing minutes, before the mob doctor arrived, Harper knelt on the cold marble floor in her fine dress, pressing her hands hard against Dominic’s side to stem the bleeding. Dominic groaned in agony, his fingers digging into her thigh so hard they would leave bruises, but Harper didn't flinch. She spoke to him continuously in a low, soothing whisper, wiping the sweat from his forehead with her shoulder.
"Stay with me, Dominic. Look at me. Steel eyes, remember? Look at me."
Dominic kept his eyes fixed on hers, his hand gripping her dress as if she were the only anchor keeping him from slipping into the dark.
When Dr. Rossi finally arrived, he set to work immediately, patching the bullet graze that had narrowly missed Dominic’s vital organs.
By 5:00 AM, the foyer had been cleaned, Leo had been sent back to school in a secure car, and Dominic was resting in his master suite in the West Wing, connected to an IV line.
Harper sat in a chair beside his bed, her velvet dress ruined with dark bloodstains, her face pale with exhaustion. She hadn't left his side for a second.
Dominic stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. The color was slowly returning to his face. He turned his head and saw her sitting there, holding his hand.
"You're still here," he whispered, his voice dry and scratchy.
"Of course I'm here, you idiot," she said, a sad, watery smile breaking across her face. "You owe me a new dress."
Dominic let out a faint, weak laugh that turned into a wince of pain. He squeezed her hand weakly. "What happened to the contract, Harper? Section four... no obligation to tend to wounded mob bosses."
"Section four can go to hell," Harper whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "Who did this to you?"
Dominic’s expression darkened, the cold steel returning to his eyes. "Frankie DeLuca. They ambushed our motorcade near the docks. He thinks if he takes me out, his family takes the city."
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Harper leaned forward, resting her forehead against his knuckles. "He almost killed you."
"He failed," Dominic said softly. He reached up with his free hand, his fingers stroking her hair. "And as long as I have you to come home to, Harper... no one in this city is strong enough to kill me."
