Page 51 of Bound in Ruin

"He thinks he's taking what belongs to her," I say, my voice dropping into a low, lethal rumble as I set the coffee down on the desk with a clack. “That’s not happening.”

"Dominic, legally, Dante has leverage," Keane warns gently. "If you push back on this, it's going to spark a full internal war with his faction."

"Let it," I state coldly, standing up to stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the estate grounds. "Rosalia suffered ten fucking years with that pig bastard. She bled for that name, and she deserves everything that is hers by right. I won't let Dante or anyone else touch what belongs to my wife."

“Is this still about Rosalia?” Keane stares knowingly at me. “Or… is this about us?”

"You know what I need from that will.” I quickly change the subject. “What about the other information I asked you for?" I demand, my tone full of a dark, impending dread. "Was he hitting her?"

My mind involuntarily flashes back to last night—to the pale, raised lines mapping across her waist, her ribs, her hip. I see now why she was always so adamant about dressing in the bathroom, why she fought so hard to keep from being seen naked, why she guarded herself like a vault.

It wasn't just a stray mark. It was a terrifying catalog of violence written into her skin.

Keane hesitates, a rare shadow of somber weight crossing his face as he glances down at his file.

"It's worse than we thought, Dominic," Keane says quietly. "Luciano was abusing her. Beatings, isolation... the works. But that's not all my contact found."

My blood spikes with fury, but I force it down.

"Speak, Keane," I growl, every muscle in my back locking tight.

"She was pregnant," Keane reveals, looking up to catch my eye. "Rosalia was carrying his child, but she ended the pregnancy the night Luciano was murdered."

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, brutal slap. Silence drops over the office, suffocating and vast.

My mind races, reassembling every piece of her I thought I understood. There is so much more to Rosalia’s past than she has ever let on—a deep, bloody trench of trauma she’s been carrying entirely on her own.

A deeper, volcanic fury surges through my veins. I slam my fist down on the heavy mahogany desk, the wood vibrating under the force as a roar rattles in my chest.

"Dominic, calm down!" Keane steps forward, holding his hands up to steady me. He looks at me, his eyes narrowing as he studies the absolute, murderous rage pouring off me. "Fuck... are you in love with her?"

I turn my head and lock my gaze onto his, glaring with enough lethal heat to strip the paint off the walls. Keane wisely seals his mouth shut, raising his palms in surrender and stepping back.

I can barely breathe. The walls of the study feel like they're closing in on me, suffocating me under the weight of a dead man's sins and the agonizing ache in my chest for the woman sleeping upstairs.

Without another word, I turn on my heel and storm out of the study, my heavy strides echoing through the corridor. I need space. I need air before I tear this entire house apart with my bare hands.

Keane doesn’t follow me. Even as my closest friend, he knows better than to step into my path when I’m breathing fire. I head down the stairs toward the dining room, but the moment I cross the threshold, I stop short.

Rosalia is sitting at the head of the long wooden table, eating alone. She’s wrapped in a soft silk robe, her dark hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders, looking soft, vulnerable, and thoroughly undone by the morning light.

My first instinct is to retreat—to pull back into the shadows before the weight of what I just learned about her past explodes out of me. But before I can take a step back, her head snaps up and her eyes lock onto mine.

A deep, rosy blush instantly creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks as a flustered expression crosses her face. I don't even need to ask; I know exactly what's flashing through her mind.

In a fraction of a second, the image hits me, too—the memory of her beneath me, her fingers digging into my back, her voice screaming my name with a wild, demanding fire that nearly drove me insane.

Suddenly, the murderous rage I felt toward Luciano just seconds ago dissolves, replaced by a raw wave of heat. She wasn't a victim last night. She was fierce, demanding, and utterly captivating—a completely different person from the guarded widow I married.

"Good morning," she murmurs, her voice slightly lower than usual as she looks back down at her plate, nervously tracing the rim of her coffee cup.

"Morning," I mumble back, as I pull out the chair across from her and sit down.

A maid quickly steps forward, pouring me a cup of black coffee and setting down a plate, before quietly bowing out to leave us in peace. We eat in silence, the thick air between us humming with the ghost of every touch, every mark, and every dirty word exchanged in the dark.

I clear my throat, uncomfortable with how loudly the silence is ringing in my ears. "Where's... the dog?" I mumble, staring down at my plate.

Rosalia glances up. "One of the staff mentioned Helena took Yapper to the vet early this morning for a check-up and shots."