Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind The Enemy’s Name
“Dominic…”
The voice behind the office door was barely louder than a breath.
Yet Dominic reacted as if someone had fired another bullet into him.
His shoulders locked.
His face drained of color.
And the hand holding my phone slowly lowered.
I had never seen him afraid.
Angry, yes.
Cold, constantly.
Dangerous enough that armed men watched his expression before deciding whether to breathe.
But fear?
Never.
Until now.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
Dominic didn’t answer.
The voice came again.
“Dommy.”
Arthur, Dominic’s security chief, raised his weapon.
“Boss?”
Dominic lifted one hand.
“Don’t shoot.”
Arthur stared at him.
Someone had penetrated the most secure floor of the building, disabled the lights, locked themselves inside Dominic’s private office, and called him by a name nobody around him seemed to recognize.
And Dominic was telling his men not to shoot.
That frightened me more than anything.
“Open the door,” Dominic said.
Nothing happened.
Arthur stepped forward.
“Let me clear it.”
“No.”
“You’re wounded.”
“I said no.”
Dominic moved toward the office.
I caught his arm.
“Your stitches.”
He looked down at my hand.
Something strange passed through his eyes.
“You should stay here.”
“Not happening.”
“Clara.”
“You’re bleeding through the gauze.”
“And someone is inside my office.”
“Which is exactly why the injured man shouldn’t go first.”
Arthur almost smiled.
Dominic did not.
“You have a habit of ignoring instructions.”
“I learned from you.”
For one second, despite everything, his mouth nearly twitched.
Then another metallic click came from the door.
We both turned.
Arthur positioned himself beside the frame.
Two guards covered the hallway.
Dominic reached for the handle.
The door swung inward.
Empty.
Nobody.
Only darkness.
Arthur entered first.
His flashlight swept across the bookshelves.
Desk.
Windows.
Cabinet.
Nothing.
“That’s impossible,” one guard muttered.
The office had no second door.
The windows were sealed.
Dominic stepped inside.
I followed.
Then I noticed something on his desk.
A photograph.
Old.
Bent at the corners.
Dominic saw it too.
He stopped.
Arthur moved toward it.
“Don’t.”
Dominic’s command came sharply.
He picked it up himself.
I watched his face.
Whatever was in that photograph hurt him.
“Dominic?”
He handed it to me.
Three boys stood outside a modest brick house.
The oldest looked around sixteen.
The second perhaps thirteen.
The youngest couldn’t have been older than eight.
Even before I studied their faces, I recognized Dominic.
He was the middle boy.
No tailored suit.
No guarded expression.
Just a skinny teenager with dark hair and one arm around the youngest child.
Someone had circled the youngest boy’s face in red ink.
On the back was a sentence.
YOU LEFT HIM TO DIE.
“Who is he?”
Dominic took the photograph back.
“My brother.”
I blinked.
“I thought you only had one brother.”
“I do.”
He stared at the boy.
“Marco.”
“Then who is this?”
Dominic’s thumb covered the youngest child.
He didn’t answer.
Arthur did.
“Luca.”
Dominic looked at him sharply.
Arthur immediately regretted speaking.
“Luca Rossi,” he continued carefully. “The youngest.”
“What happened to him?”
Dominic turned away.
“He died.”
The words were flat.
Too flat.
“How?”
“House fire.”
Arthur’s eyes dropped.
I noticed.
Dominic noticed too.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Arthur.”
Arthur remained silent.
Dominic stepped toward him.
Even wounded, Dominic somehow became larger when angry.
“What do you know?”
“Boss, this isn’t the time.”
“Then make it the time.”
Arthur looked toward me.
That was his mistake.
Dominic’s voice dropped.
“Anything involving my wife can be said in front of her.”
My wife.
He had called me that before.
But this time it sounded different.
Not contractual.
Protective.
Arthur exhaled.
“The voice we heard…”
Dominic waited.
“It sounded like Luca.”
Dominic’s expression turned to stone.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“He was eight.”
“I know.”
“I watched them carry his body out.”
Arthur said nothing.
Dominic’s face hardened.
Then he looked at the photograph again.
Someone wanted him remembering his dead brother.
Someone wanted him vulnerable.
And somehow they had connected that memory to me.
My phone vibrated again.
Everyone looked at it.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
THE WRONG ROSSI DIED THAT NIGHT.
Dominic read it over my shoulder.
His breathing changed.
Another message appeared.
ASK ARTHUR WHO IDENTIFIED THE BODY.
Dominic slowly looked up.
Arthur had gone pale.
“Arthur?”
Silence.
“Who identified Luca?”
Arthur swallowed.
“Your father.”
Dominic stared at him.
“My father was in New York.”
“No.”
“What?”
“He told you he was.”
Dominic stepped closer.
“You’re telling me my father lied about where he was the night Luca died?”
“I’m telling you what I know.”
“Which is?”
Arthur hesitated.
“The body was badly burned.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
Dominic stopped moving.
“How badly?”
Arthur didn’t answer.
Dominic’s voice became dangerous.
“How badly?”
“Enough that nobody could visually identify him.”
The room went completely silent.
“Then how did my father know it was Luca?”
“Dental records.”
Dominic stared at him.
“Luca was eight.”
“Yes.”
“Who provided the records?”
Arthur looked toward the floor.
“Your father.”
Something shattered inside Dominic without making a sound.
I could see it.
His childhood had contained a certainty.
His little brother died.
Now someone was pulling at that certainty.
I touched Dominic’s arm.
“We need to treat your wound.”
He looked at me as though he had forgotten he was injured.
Then his knees weakened.
I caught him.
Arthur moved forward.
Dominic waved him away.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I said.
I guided him toward the sofa in his office.
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
That surprised both of us.
I reopened my medical kit.
The graze needed cleaning and closing.
My hands returned to familiar work.
Gloves.
Antiseptic.
Needle.
Thread.
Dominic watched me.
Seven years ago, I had done this in an alley.
Now I was doing it in a penthouse surrounded by armed men.
Life had a cruel sense of humor.
“This will hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I know.”
His gaze dropped toward the old scar.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then Dominic said quietly:
“Why did you become a nurse?”
I looked at him.
“That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“I need something else to think about.”
Fair enough.
“My mother.”
His expression shifted.
“She was sick?”
“Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She survived.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“She did?”
“For twelve years.”
My smile was small.
“She died three years ago.”
Dominic looked genuinely sorry.
“I didn’t know.”
“You never asked.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
He absorbed them without becoming defensive.
“You’re right.”
I threaded the needle.
He watched my fingers.
“You used to do that differently.”
I froze.
“What?”
“The knot.”
I looked at him.
“In the alley, you held the thread between these fingers.”
He touched two of my fingers gently.
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
My heart beat harder.
“You barely saw my face.”
“I remember your voice.”
His fingers remained against mine.
“You kept telling me I wasn’t allowed to die.”
“You were being difficult.”
“I was bleeding to death.”
“Exactly. Terrible manners.”
He smiled.
A real smile.
It transformed him.
For a moment I could imagine Dominic before violence and power had hardened him.
Then the smile vanished.
“Clara.”
“What?”
“If I had known it was you…”
He stopped.
I waited.
“If you had known what?”
His eyes met mine.
“I wouldn’t have made the marriage part of Ethan’s settlement.”
My hand stopped.
“You regret marrying me?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Something passed between us.
Dangerous in an entirely different way.
“Then what do you regret?”
“The way it happened.”
I looked down.
“You could release me.”
Dominic was silent.
“That’s what you want?”
I should have said yes.
Three months ago, I would have.
Two weeks ago, probably.
Even that morning.
But now I was staring at the man whose life I had once held between my hands.
A man who had remembered my voice for seven years.
“I don’t know.”
The honesty surprised me.
It surprised him too.
Arthur cleared his throat.
“Boss.”
Dominic looked over.
“We traced the message.”
“And?”
“It bounced through several servers, but the original signal came from inside the building.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Which floor?”
Arthur hesitated.
“This one.”
Everyone looked around.
Someone was still nearby.
Dominic stood.
I immediately pushed him back.
“No.”
“Clara.”
“I just stitched you.”
“Someone is inside my home.”
“And tearing those stitches will somehow help?”
Arthur stepped forward.
“She’s right.”
Dominic glared at him.
Arthur raised both hands.
“I’m brave, not suicidal. I’m still saying it.”
I finished securing the bandage.
“Twenty minutes.”
Dominic frowned.
“Ten.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen.”
“Fine.”
He looked strangely satisfied.
Then my phone rang.
Not a message.
A call.
Unknown number.
Dominic held out his hand.
I shook my head.
“It’s my phone.”
“Speaker.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then breathing.
A man.
“Clara Hayes?”
“Yes.”
Dominic watched me.
The voice was distorted.
“You don’t remember me.”
“Who is this?”
“But I remember you.”
My skin went cold.
Dominic moved closer.
“Where did we meet?”
A soft laugh.
“Seven years ago.”
Dominic took the phone.
“Who are you?”
The caller went silent.
Then:
“Still giving orders, Dominic?”
Dominic froze.
The voice continued.
“You always did think you were the strongest brother.”
Dominic’s face changed.
Arthur whispered:
“Trace it.”
The caller laughed again.
“You married her. That’s almost poetic.”
Dominic’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“How do you know Clara?”
“I know everything about Clara.”
“Touch her and I’ll—”
“You still don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“She wasn’t in that alley by accident.”
I stopped breathing.
Dominic looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
The voice ignored him.
“Ask Clara why she was carrying a surgical training kit at midnight.”
“I had clinical rotations,” I said.
“Did you?”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“Then why doesn’t the hospital have any record of you working that night?”
I stared at the phone.
“That’s impossible.”
“I checked.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?”
The call ended.
Silence.
Dominic handed me the phone.
I immediately opened my old email account.
Seven years was a long time, but I never deleted school correspondence.
I searched the date.
Clinical schedule.
There.
I opened it.
My rotation had ended at six.
Not eleven.
I stared at the screen.
“That can’t be right.”
“What?” Dominic asked.
“I remember leaving the hospital late.”
“Could you have stayed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I tried to remember.
And couldn’t.
That terrified me.
There was a gap.
A small one.
But it was there.
I remembered leaving the hospital.
I remembered walking.
I remembered the alley.
But something between those memories felt blurred.
Then another detail returned.
A man in the hospital parking lot.
A black sedan.
Someone saying my name.
Clara.
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“What is it?” Dominic asked.
“Someone spoke to me.”
“When?”
“That night.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
The memory sharpened.
A man standing beside the car.
Gray coat.
Gloves.
He handed me something.
An envelope.
“Clara?”
“I was given an envelope.”
Dominic’s expression changed.
“What was inside?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
I closed my eyes.
Paper.
An address.
Jackson Boulevard.
And money.
No.
Not money.
A photograph.
My eyes opened.
“Someone sent me there.”
Arthur stopped moving.
Dominic stared at me.
“To the alley?”
I nodded slowly.
“I think so.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
A sudden knock came from the private elevator.
Three short knocks.
Arthur immediately drew his weapon.
Nobody should have been able to use that elevator without authorization.
Another knock.
Then a woman’s voice.
“Clara?”
My blood went cold.
I knew that voice.
Impossible.
I walked toward the elevator.
Dominic caught my hand.
“Who is it?”
I couldn’t answer.
The voice came again.
“Clara, open the door.”
My mother had been dead for three years.
But the woman behind that elevator sounded exactly like her.
I reached for the control panel.
The elevator was already unlocked from the other side.
May you like
The doors began to open.
And someone wearing my mother’s necklace was standing inside.
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