Chapter 4 - The Private Quarters
Dominic led me up the grand spiral staircase to the third floor—a private, highly secure wing of the mansion where servants were rarely allowed. The hallways here were quiet, lined with dark mahogany paneling, expensive oil paintings, and soft velvet carpets that muffled our footsteps.
He brought me into a pristine, sterile medical suite equipped with modern medical equipment, an adjustable examination table, and floor-to-ceiling cabinets filled with pharmaceutical supplies. It was essentially a private hospital room built into the mansion—a necessity for a family involved in high-risk mob violence.
Dominic helped me sit down on the edge of the padded examination table. He walked over to a sink, washed his hands thoroughly, and grabbed a fresh roll of medical gauze and a bottle of antiseptic solution.
He returned to my side, soaking a pad of gauze with the cold liquid. "This is going to sting," he warned softly.
Before I could prepare myself, he gently pressed the soaked gauze against the ragged tear on my cheek.
A sharp, searing heat shot through my face, and I involuntarily gasped, my hands flying up to grip the fabric of his trousers near his knee. I immediately realized what I was doing and tried to pull my hands back, terrified of touching him so casually.
"Don't," Dominic commanded quietly, stopping my hand with his own. "Hold on if it hurts."
I tightened my grip on his trousers, burying my head slightly into his hip as he carefully cleaned the dried blood from around my cheek, neck, and collarbone. His movements were remarkably steady and precise, devoid of any hesitation.
"Why did you do it?" Dominic asked suddenly, his voice echoing in the quiet room.
I opened my eyes, looking up at him through my lashes. "What do you mean?"
"You knew who Bianca Moretti was," Dominic said, wiping away a stray drop of blood near my jaw. "You knew she was about to become the mistress of this house. You knew the power her family holds. Yet you stepped between her and a blow meant for my mother. You took a heavy hit to the face for an old woman who isn't even your blood relative."
I took a slow breath, trying to ignore the constant throbbing in my cheek. "Mrs. Rossi has been kind to me. When I first started working here, I was terrified. Everyone in this house is... intimidating. But Mrs. Rossi treated me like a human being. On her good days, she talks to me about her gardens. On her bad days, she just needs someone to listen to her without judgment."
I looked directly into Dominic's piercing blue eyes. "I couldn't just stand there and watch someone hurt her, Mr. Rossi. It didn't matter who Bianca was. It was wrong."
Dominic stared at me in silence. The cold, unyielding mask he wore for the outside world seemed to soften just a fraction. He lowered the gauze, his eyes dropping to my apron, which was heavily stained with blood.
"You called her out on the cameras," Dominic noted, a tiny, faint hint of amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "That was clever."
"I was bluffing," I admitted weakly, a faint smile touching my lips despite the pain. "I didn't actually know if the conservatory camera was turned on."
Dominic let out a short, low breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "It was on. And even if it wasn't, I would have believed my mother over Bianca any day."
At that moment, the door to the medical suite opened, and Dr. Vance—a gray-haired, sharp-eyed physician who had served the Rossi family for decades—hurried into the room carrying a heavy leather medical bag.
"Dominic," Dr. Vance said, nodding briskly before turning his attention to me. "Antonio told me there was an emergency. Good Lord, what happened to her face?"
"An altercation," Dominic answered tersely, stepping back to give the doctor room to work. "She has a deep laceration on her right cheekbone caused by a sharp platinum ring. Clean it, stitch it, and make sure there's no permanent scarring."
Dr. Vance snapped on a pair of sterile latex gloves and inspected the wound carefully, turning my head side to side under the bright overhead light. "It's a clean cut, but deep. It hit the bone. She's going to need at least six or seven internal and external stitches. It's going to leave a mark if it's not handled delicately."
"Fix it properly, Vance," Dominic said, his tone carrying a subtle, non-negotiable weight. "Use whatever plastic surgery techniques are necessary to minimize the scar."
"Of course, Boss," Dr. Vance replied, pulling a syringe of local anesthetic from his bag. "This will numb the area first."
As the doctor prepared the needle, I felt a wave of anxiety hit me. I hated needles. I closed my eyes tightly, my breath hitching as I squeezed my eyes shut.
Suddenly, a warm, heavy hand closed over my fingers.
I opened my eyes and looked up. Dominic had stepped back up to the side of the table. He didn't say anything, but his broad hand completely enveloped mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Deep breath, Skyler," Dominic murmured softly.
I focused on the feeling of his hand surrounding mine, holding onto it tightly as Dr. Vance administered the local anesthetic. Within seconds, a cold numbness spread across the right side of my face, dulling the sharp agony into a dull, distant pressure.
For the next twenty minutes, Dr. Vance worked meticulously, stitching the deep tear in my skin with delicate, precise thread. Throughout the entire procedure, Dominic never let go of my hand. He stood there like a immovable wall, his icy eyes fixed on the doctor's hands, ensuring everything was done perfectly.
When Dr. Vance finally finished, he applied a neat, white sterile bandage over my cheek and stepped back, snapping off his gloves.
"All done," Dr. Vance said, wiping his forehead. "The numbness will wear off in about two hours. I'm prescribing a course of strong antibiotics and pain medication. She needs absolute rest for the next three to four days. No heavy lifting, no sweeping, and no working."
"I can still work—" I started to protest, but Dominic cut me off instantly.
"You are off duty until further notice," Dominic declared firmly. "Doctor's orders."
"Dominic," Antonio appeared at the doorway, looking tense. "The guests in the ballroom are getting restless. Don Carmine Moretti—Bianca's father—just arrived at the main gate with four carloads of armed men. He heard Bianca was thrown out, and he's demanding an explanation."
The room temperature seemed to drop instantly once more. Dominic slowly released my hand, his face morphing back into the cold, ruthless mob boss that New York feared.
"Tell Don Carmine I will meet him in the main study in five minutes," Dominic said calmly, straightening his tuxedo jacket. "And tell him to leave his men outside, or none of them will leave this property alive."
"Yes, Boss," Antonio bowed slightly and hurried away.
Dominic turned back to me, looking down at my bandaged face. "Vance will take you to a guest bedroom on this floor. You are not sleeping in the staff quarter basements anymore."
"Mr. Rossi, I really don't think that's necessary—"
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"I decide what is necessary in this house, Skyler," Dominic said, his voice firm yet carrying an undeniable undertone of care. "Get some rest. We will talk tomorrow."
With that, Dominic turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with the doctor, my mind spinning faster than my throbbing head.
