Chapter 3 - The Mirror of Disgust|
For three long hours, Dominic had sat in a warm room holding Serena’s hand because she had a headache and felt dizzy. He had called top doctors, ordered imported water, and stroked her hair.
Meanwhile, a few miles away, Clara—his wife, the woman who had carried his name and stood beside him through five years of bloodshed and political wars—had been trapped in the twisted metal of a destroyed car.
Bleeding to death. Completely alone.
"Dom?"
Dominic turned slowly. Serena was standing in the doorway of her private suite, wearing a satin hospital robe. Her brow was furrowed, but it wasn't concern on her face—it was annoyance.
"What is going on out here?" Serena asked, crossing her arms. "Who was that on the stretcher? You left me in the middle of a sentence."
Dominic stared at her.
For a whole year, her face had consumed his thoughts. He had lavished her with diamond necklaces, penthouses, and constant attention. But looking at her now, framed by the bright lights of the corridor, she looked shallow. Vain. Absurd.
A violent wave of disgust washed through him—not at her, but at himself.
He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. His fingers were shaking, smearing wet red fingerprints across the glass screen.
He dialed his underboss.
"Mateo," Dominic said into the receiver. His voice was low, terrifying, and dripping with a primal rage.
"Boss?" Mateo answered immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Get to Northwestern Memorial right now," Dominic commanded, his voice trembling. "And find out who put my wife in this hospital."
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Serena took a step toward him, her lips pouting. "Dom, you're scaring me. What about my IV? The doctor said—"
"Shut up," Dominic rasped, not even looking at her as he walked toward the surgical waiting room. "Just shut up, Serena."
