Chapter 3 - THE WAKE OF THE BEAST
The scent of sterile white linen and antiseptic replaced the copper tang of blood, but the burning ache in my ribs reminded me I was still very much alive.
When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a private, high-security medical wing blinded me for a second. I was no longer in a public hospital. Dominic Mercer didn't trust public infrastructure, especially when someone tried to murder an employee inside his home. He had a fully equipped trauma ICU installed in the subterranean level of Blackthorne House, staffed by elite surgeons who didn't ask questions and were paid enough to forget what they saw.
I tried to shift my weight, but a sharp, blinding pain tore through my right shoulder, making me gasp.
"Don't move."
The voice came from the shadows near the door.
Dominic sat in a leather armchair, slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His tuxedo jacket was gone, his white dress shirt stained with dark, dried blood across the front. He looked exhausted, but his eyes—those chilling, bottomless blue eyes—were locked directly onto mine. They didn't hold the panic of the ballroom anymore. They held a cold, terrifying calculation.
"How long?" I whispered, my voice raspy and dry like sandpaper.
"Three days," Dominic replied, standing up and walking slowly toward the bed. He moved with the silent, predatory grace of a big cat. "The surgeons pulled three 9mm hollow-point rounds out of you. One missed your lung by a millimeter. You should be dead."
"I'm hard to kill," I managed a bitter, ghost of a smile.
Dominic didn't smile back. He stopped beside the bed, resting one large hand on the metal railing. "When you collapsed, someone in the back of the room called you by another name. Not Mara."
My heart skipped a beat, but I forced my expression to remain flat. "People say crazy things when a shooting starts."
"It wasn't a panicked civilian," Dominic said, his voice dropping dangerously low. "My audio surveillance systems—the ones running independent of the estate's main power—isolated the voice. He called you Elena."
The silence in the room stretched so tight it felt like a piano wire about to snap. I stared up at him, realizing there was no point in lying. Dominic Mercer was a man who owned intelligence networks capable of toppling foreign governments; if he wanted to dig up my past, it was only a matter of time.
"Elena Vance?" Dominic asked, testing the name on his tongue as if tasting poison. "Or are you connected to the Chicago Syndicate's old bloodline? The ones who supposedly wiped each other out in a warehouse fire eight years ago?"
"If you know that much, then you know how dangerous it is to keep me in this house," I whispered fiercely, wincing as my shoulder flared with pain. "The man who shot at Caleb wasn't after your son, Dominic. He was after me. I brought a war straight to your front door."
Dominic didn't flinch. Instead, a dark, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth—a look of pure, unadulterated arrogance.
"Let me make something crystal clear to you, Elena—or whatever your name is," Dominic leaned in close, his face inches from mine, his voice radiating absolute power. "Nobody shoots inside my house. Nobody bleeds on my floor. And nobody hunts people on my property without my permission."
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He straightened up, adjusting his cuffs.
"Whoever wants you dead just made an enemy of the most dangerous man in New York," Dominic continued coldly. "So before you worry about your past catching up to you, you need to understand one thing: In Blackthorne House, I decide who lives, and I decide who dies. Right now, you belong to me."
