Page 73 of Bound in Ruin

"You are mine," he murmurs against my mouth, his voice a thick, gravelly vow that leaves no room for doubt. "Every single piece of you, Rosalia. You are mine."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ROSALIA

My heart is pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird as I sit at the front table in the courtroom.

Today will determine how the rest of my life will go.

Okay, so maybe I’m overreacting.

I’m already married to Dominic, and as unconventional, dark, and wild as our arrangement started out, it has turned into something unexpected. It’s a wonderful marriage, in its own intense way. I’m as happy as I can be. He doesn’t hurt me. He doesn’t abuse me. He listens to me, protects me, and lets me be completely myself.

But winning this case still means everything to me. I live every day with the feat of being dragged away in handcuffs for my Luciano’s murder. This is a further step away from that. Whatever the outcome is today will determine whether Dante finally gets stripped of his arrogance—or whether he wins.

The morning air inside the probate court is heavy with the scent of old paper, polished wood, and decades of bitter legal battles. The vaulted ceiling casts long shadows across the courtroom, amplifying every nervous shuffle of feet and hushed whisper.

Beside me, my lawyer quietly arranges a stack of legal briefs, adjusting his glasses calmly. I sit up straight, smoothing down the front of my tailored dark dress, trying to disguise the slight tremble in my fingers.

I can feel Dominic’s heated gaze on my face, but he doesn’t speak. He’s been quiet since we left the house earlier. Before I can ask why he’s staring so intently at me, the heavy set of double doors swings open at the back of the room, and the temperature instantly drops to absolute zero.

It’s Dante.

He steps inside, flanked by his entire team of high-priced lawyers. He wears a sharp suit that fails to hide the predatory tension in his posture.

As he walks down the center aisle, his cold, arrogant gaze locks directly onto me. I'm fully aware of how hard he’s avoiding Dominic.

A slow, mocking sneer curls Dante’s lips—a silent statement that he fully expects to strip me of every single penny and piece of land that is rightfully mine.

Dominic doesn't even bother to turn his head to look at him. He simply reaches over and rests his broad hand over mine on the polished wooden table. His palm is warm, firm, and solid, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding circle against my knuckles.

You can stop worrying about the probate hearing, Rosalia. Next week, you win, Dominic had said.

I want to believe him. Part of me does trust him completely. But as I watch Dante sit at the opposing table, leaning over to whisper to his lead council with total, unwavering confidence, a tight knot of anxiety pulls in my chest.

Dante is a worthy contender—ruthless, deeply connected, and desperate. In a courtroom like this, where an entire life's legacy can be wiped out with a single gavel stroke, nothing is ever truly set in stone.

My mind strays back to the night Dominic returned to the estate with that dark, triumphant glint in his eyes.

Did he blackmail Judge Sterling?

I didn't know. And truthfully, I had been too afraid to ask.

Dominic leans in close, his broad shoulder pressing lightly against mine, his warm breath fanning across the shell of my ear.

"Look at me, Rosalia," he rumbles in a low, commandingly quiet voice.

I turn my head to meet his gaze. His dark eyes are calm, steady, and utterly lethal in their certainty.

"What did I tell you about today?" he asks.

I take a quiet breath, anchoring myself in the absolute weight of his gaze. "That I’ll win. And that I don’t have to worry."

He nods once, sharp and decisive. "Then fix your face."

I let out a soft, barely audible breath, nodding as I lift my chin and adjust my stance, straightening my spine against the back of the chair.

A sudden, traitorous spark of heat flares low in my stomach. The authoritative, dark way he speaks—so effortlessly commanding, so entirely in control—turns me on completely. A flush creeps up my neck, and I suddenly feel intensely abashed that I could even think about something so wicked while sitting in a formal courtroom with my entire future hanging in the balance.