Chapter 2 - The Softness of Steel
The private emergency wing of St. Barnabas Hospital was cleared within four minutes of Dominic’s arrival.
The head of surgery himself met the black Escalade at the ambulance bay.
For three hours, Clara was treated in a private room. The burns on her neck and collarbone were severe second-degree, requiring specialized cooling bandages and pain medication, but thankfully, her face had been spared the worst of the scalding oil.
By two o'clock in the morning, the heavy morphine drip had reduced her screaming agony to a dull, floating ache.
The private room was quiet, lit only by the soft blue monitors and the streetlights outside the window.
Clara lay on the crisp white hospital bed, her hair loose around her shoulders, a light white sheet pulled up to her waist. Her neck was wrapped in pristine white medical gauze.
Sitting on a vinyl chair beside her bed was Dominic.
He had washed his hands and face, but he was still wearing his ruined, sauce-stained dress shirt and trousers. His coat was draped over the back of the chair. He sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at her with dark, tireless eyes.
Clara shifted slightly, letting out a soft sigh.
Dominic moved instantly.
“Don't move fast,” he said softly, leaning over the bed. “How’s the pain?”
“Floating,” Clara murmured, her voice raspy. She looked down at her hands, then at his dirty shirt. “Dominic... your clothes...”
“Screw the clothes,” Dominic said bluntly.
He reached out, his broad hand hesitating in the air before gently wrapping around her fingers. His touch was so light, so careful, as if he were afraid his calloused skin might break her.
Clara looked at their joined hands.
Her hand was soft, pale, and plump; his was dark, scarred, and strong enough to snap a man’s wrist. Yet he held her as if she were made of delicate spun glass.
“Why did you do that?” Clara asked quietly, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “You knelt down in that sauce. You picked me up. Everyone was watching...”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. A dark muscle ticked in his cheek.
“Because if I hadn't picked you up,” Dominic said, his voice low and intense, “I would have killed every man at that table right there in front of you.”
Clara swallowed hard.
“People talk about me, Dominic,” Clara whispered, looking away toward the dark window. “They call me names. They laugh at my body. I’m used to it.”
Dominic set his other hand over hers, forcing her to look at him.
“I don't give a damn what fools say,” Dominic growled softly. “You have more dignity in your little finger than anyone in that restaurant. You work yourself to the bone for your mother’s debts. You treat strangers with kindness when the world gives you nothing back.”
He leaned closer, his dark grey eyes locking onto hers with a fierce sincerity that burned hotter than the sauce had.
“You are a beautiful woman, Clara Jenkins,” Dominic said, leaving no room for argument. “And anyone who makes you cry in my presence doesn't deserve to breathe.”
Clara’s throat tightened. No man had ever looked at her like that. No man had ever defended her like that.
Before she could answer, the door opened quietly, and Marco stepped into the room.
Marco glanced at Clara, then bowed his head slightly toward Dominic.
“Boss,” Marco whispered. “The situation at the warehouse on 18th is prepared. And... we have a caller from Brooklyn. Sal Carrow is on the line.”
Dominic didn't let go of Clara’s hand immediately. He squeezed her fingers gently, leaning close.
“I have to handle some business,” Dominic whispered to her. “A private nurse is outside the door. Anything you want, you ask her. I’ll be back before sunrise.”
“Dominic...” Clara asked nervously. “Are you... are you going to hurt someone?”
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Dominic looked at her for a long second. The cold, lethal shadow returned to his eyes, but his voice stayed soft for her.
“I’m going to make sure no one ever hurts you again,” he said.
