Chapter 5 - The Gala That Marked Me as a Target and the Husband Who Refused to Let Go
Six weeks of intense physical therapy passed. Under the relentless care of Dominic’s private medical staff and Isabella’s doting presence, my wounds healed into jagged, silvery scars across my back, side, and shoulder. My strength returned, though the deep ache in my bones remained as a permanent souvenir of that violent night.
My mother was thriving in Baltimore, her new heart beating strong. We spoke on the phone every single day. Dominic had made sure she believed I was working as a high-level executive coordinator for his real estate conglomerate, sparing her the terrifying reality of mafia wars and bullet wounds.
Then came the night of the Metropolitan Heritage Gala.
"It is time the five families see you," Dominic announced one evening over dinner in the grand dining room. "Victor Costa has been spreading rumors that you are an invalid, that the Rossi family was crippled by his attack, and that our marriage is nothing more than a legal stunt to hide weakness."
"And what are we going to show them?" I asked, setting my wine glass down.
Dominic leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes gleaming with ruthless ambition. "We are going to show them that my wife is untouchable, unbended, and that anyone who stands against us will be eradicated."
The night of the gala, I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master suite. The transformation was unrecognizable.
I wore a custom-fitted, backless emerald silk gown designed by a top Parisian couturier. The cut of the dress was deliberate: it gracefully framed my figure while leaving the silvery, healed bullet scars on my shoulder and upper back visible for the world to see. I didn't hide my wounds; I wore them like armor. Around my neck hung a vintage diamond necklace from the Rossi family vault, matching the massive emerald-cut ring on my finger.
When the bedroom door opened, Dominic stepped in, wearing a bespoke black tuxedo with a silk bow tie. He stopped dead in his tracks, his dark eyes raking over me from head to toe. A low, ragged breath escaped his chest.
"You are breathtaking," he murmured, his voice deep and rough.
"Are you sure about this?" I asked, feeling a brief flutter of nervousness in my chest. "Showing my scars?"
Dominic walked up behind me, his reflection towering over mine in the mirror. He placed his large, warm hands on my bare shoulders, his fingers lightly brushing over the raised scar tissue near my collarbone.
"These scars are proof that death tried to take you and failed," Dominic whispered against my ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. "You are the bravest woman in this city, Maya. Tonight, every man in that room will envy me, and every enemy will fear you."
When we arrived at the Grand Plaza Hotel in Midtown, the security presence was staggering. Flashes from society photographers illuminated the red carpet as Dominic escorted me from the armored Maybach. He didn't rush. He placed his hand firmly at the small of my back, guiding me up the red carpet with the absolute poise of an emperor presenting his queen.
The moment we entered the grand ballroom, the hum of two hundred elite guests died down to a sudden, stunned silence.
Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire.
“That’s her... the waitress who took seven bullets for Isabella.”
“Look at her back... those are the gunshot scars.”
“Dominic actually married her... she’s the Rossi matriarch now.”
Dominic ignored the stares, guiding me smoothly toward the center of the room. Isabella joined us, looking radiant and proud, linking her arm with mine.
Then, the crowd parted, and an older man with slicked-back gray hair, cold reptilian eyes, and a sharp, cruel smile walked toward us, flanked by two heavily built associates.
Victor Costa.
The air around us dropped ten degrees. I felt Dominic’s posture instantly lock into lethal combat readiness, his hand tightening subtly against my waist.
"Dominic," Costa sneered, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "What an unexpected pleasure. And this must be the famous new bride. The savior of the Rossi family."
Costa’s cold, predatory eyes swept down to my bare back, lingering on the visible bullet scars with sickening satisfaction.
"You have quite a few marks on you, Mrs. Rossi," Costa said softly, taking a step closer. "It’s a dangerous world out there for young girls who get in the way of heavy business. Sometimes, luck only works once."
Before Costa could finish his sentence, Dominic moved.
In a blur of terrifying speed, Dominic closed the distance, grabbed Costa by the lapels of his thousand-dollar suit, and slammed him violently against a decorative marble column. The impact cracked the stone veneer with a sickening crunch.
Gasps of horror echoed across the ballroom. Costa’s two bodyguards reached for their jackets, but within a fraction of a second, Enzo and four Rossi enforcers had glocks pressed directly beneath their chins.
Dominic leaned in until his nose was an inch from Costa’s terrified face. Dominic’s voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a demonic, icy calm that chilled everyone within earshot to the bone.
"Listen to me very carefully, Victor," Dominic whispered, his grip tightening until Costa choked for air. "If you ever look at my wife again, if you ever speak her name, or if your shadow even crosses her path, I won't just kill you. I will skin your syndicate alive, erase your family name from the history of this country, and feed whatever is left of you to the Hudson. Do you understand me?"
Costa, his face turning purple, frantically nodded.
Dominic shoved him away like a piece of garbage, adjusted his own cufflinks, and turned back to me without a single drop of sweat on his brow. He offered me his arm with absolute elegance.
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"Shall we get a drink, my love?" he asked softly.
I took his arm, my heart racing not with fear, but with a fierce, burning pride. In that moment, I knew there was no going back. I was the wife of Dominic Rossi, and I would rule this world by his side.
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