Chapter 2 - THE SAFE HOUSE AND THE SHADOWS
The private medical suite inside Dominic Ashford’s TriBeCa estate was built like a vault.
Reinforced steel doors, soundproofed walls, state-of-the-art medical equipment, and two armed guards stationed outside thirty-six hours a day. It was where Dominic’s inner circle came when they couldn't risk going to a public hospital.
Dr. Sarah Vance—no relation to Elena, though the shared name was a strange twist of fate—was a former trauma surgeon who had worked exclusively for the Ashford family for a decade.
She finished wrapping the white linen bandages around Elena’s ribs, pulling the medical tape snug before stepping back with a heavy sigh.
"Three broken ribs, a hairline fracture in the left cheekbone, severe dehydration, and secondary infection in the wrist lacerations," Sarah reported quietly to Dominic, who stood near the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. "She's severely malnourished. She hasn't had a proper meal in weeks."
Dominic stared through the glass partition at the hospital bed.
Elena was asleep, fueled by heavy IV sedatives and painkillers. Her dark hair was cleaned and spread over the crisp white pillowcases. In repose, without the mask of terror covering her face, she looked remarkably delicate—her features sharp, high-cheekboned, and strikingly beautiful despite the dark purple shadows lingering under her eyes.
"Will she recover?" Dominic asked.
"Physically? Yes," Sarah replied, taking off her latex gloves and tossing them into a biohazard bin. "The bones will heal in six weeks. The scars on her wrists will fade. But mentally? She’s been systematically tortured for nearly a year, Dominic. She trusts no one. Every sudden movement makes her look for an exit."
Sarah looked up at Dominic, her expression serious.
"She asked me three times if you were going to sell her back to Caldwell," Sarah added gently. "She thinks you saved her just to use her as leverage."
Dominic’s jaw tightened. "I don't wage war on women."
"She doesn't know that," Sarah said. "In her world, men only touch women to hurt them or trade them."
The heavy steel door of the medical wing chimed, and Marco stepped inside, holding a dark leather folder. Raindrops glistened on his shoulders, and his eyes were dark with exhaustion.
"We found Terrence Cole," Marco said flatly.
Dominic turned slowly, his amber eyes igniting with a cold, predatory light. "Where?"
"A underground poker club in Chinatown," Marco replied, opening the folder to reveal a series of surveillance photographs. "He was celebrating. He thought Caldwell was going to pay him half a million for 'handling' Hector Vance's daughter."
"Is he still breathing?" Dominic asked.
"Barely," Marco smirked grimly. "We took out his six bodyguards in the alley behind the club. We have him tied to a chair in the basement of the docks. He's waiting for you."
Dominic looked back through the glass partition at Elena. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic sleep, the IV fluid dripping steadily into her arm.
He remembered the way she had cowered against the wet concrete pillar. He remembered her broken, hollow plea: Just kill me quickly.
"Keep four extra men on this floor," Dominic instructed Sarah softly. "If she wakes up, give her whatever she wants. Do not restrict her movements within the private wing."
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"Understood, Dominic," Sarah nodded.
Dominic turned toward the exit, adjusting the heavy gold cufflinks on his wrists. "Let's go, Marco. I have a debt to collect."
