Page 7 of Bound in Ruin

My stomach plummets into an absolute abyss.

It’s him. The man from the garden.

He stands there in his flawless, custom-tailored suit, his hard, dark eyes locking right back onto mine. The slow, lethal curve of his lips is back, more prominent now. A brutal wave of realization hits me with the force of a freight train. He knew. He knew exactly who I was the entire time he was provoking me out there in the dark. He was playing with his food.

I look over at Dante DeLorenzo, whose face has turned a dangerous, mottled shade of purple. He is vibrating with rage, his fists clenched tight at his sides.

In an instant, the cold brilliance of my father’s strategy becomes crystal clear. Massimo didn't tell me because he knew I'd fight it. He made this announcement publicly, in front of every major syndicate leader, so the DeLorenzos couldn't quietly drag me back into their territory or claim I belonged to them.

By the time the sun rises, the entire underworld will know that I am under Kane's formidable protection now. Touch me, and you start a war with a private army.

Dominic Kane walks a few paces closer, his eyes never leaving my face, holding me captive without even laying a finger on me.

As the guests begin to applaud and offer their superficial congratulations, a heavy, familiar numbness settles deep into my bones. The bitter truth swallows me whole. I am not safe. I am not saved. My father has simply traded my cage once again, selling me to a new master.

The room shrinks around me, suffocating and hot. The applause from the crowd feels like physical slaps against my skin. Everyone is looking at me, judging, calculating, pitying. I usually find solace in my sisters, but right now, I know if I look at them, all I will see in their eyes is devastating pity. I don't want their pity. I don't need it. I am completely, blindingly livid.

I turn on my heel and storm out of the ballroom, gathering the heavy silk folds of my gown in one fist as I practically jog down the grand marble steps toward the driveway. I head straight for the limousine that brought Daniela and me to this nightmare.

Sorry, Dani, I think bitterly.

I have to get out of this place right now. If I stay here for another minute, I am going to lose my mind.

Our family driver sees me marching toward the vehicle and hurries to pop the door open. But just as I reach out to slip into the leather interior, a deep, quiet voice cuts through the night behind me—a familiar voice that sends a sudden surge of heat straight through my blood.

"Running away?"

"Please leave me alone," I mutter, my voice barely a whisper. I am so angry my entire body is trembling. I refuse to even give him the satisfaction of turning around.

In a single, fluid motion, Dominic steps around me, planting his massive frame right between me and the open door. He doesn't even glance at me as he flicks two fingers at my driver, granting a silent, dismissive command.

"I’ll take Miss Caruso home," Dominic says, his voice flat and smooth. He looks down at me, those hard dark eyes cutting through the gloom. "This way."

I swallow the lump of rage in my throat and glare up at him. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

The corner of his plump lips pulls up into a slow, dark smirk. "Forgive me if I gave you the impression that I was asking. You will come with me."

I am not a stranger to men like this. Men obsessed with power and control, men who knock women around and manipulate them simply because they can. I spent ten grueling years married to one before I found him dead in his bed.

Contrary to what everyone in that godforsaken ballroom thinks, I didn't kill Luciano—but I sure as hell haven't lost a single second of sleep over his corpse either.

Staring into Dominic's unyielding, arrogant face, a crystal-clear realization settles over me. I already hate him.

Without giving him the victory of a scene, I turn on my heel and follow him toward his own row of vehicles. He stops beside a sleek, blackout Cadillac Escalade and holds the front passenger door open for me. Of course he drives something like this. Stinkingly rich bastards who wave their dirty money at everything and have absolute zero respect for women. He is very much like my father.

I climb inside without a word, slamming the door shut myself. Dominic rounds the hood, climbs into the driver's side, fires up the rumbling engine, and drives us off into the dark.

The ride is hot. The silence inside hangs thick, broken only by the low rumble of the engine and the quiet hum of the tires against the asphalt.

Neither of us says a word, but the air practically vibrates with a tense, hostile energy. I keep my face glued to the passenger window, staring out at the passing city lights, hyper-aware of his towering presence beside me.

His scent—cedarwood, leather, and tobacco—fills the cabin, making my pulse race against my will. It infuriates me. I loathe him, yet my body betrays me, buzzing with a dark, dangerous hum I refuse to acknowledge.

He navigates the streets with effortless, cold precision, pulling through the front gates of my father's house twenty minutes later. I don’t ask how he knows his way here, that would be stupid. He doesn't park; he just lets the heavy engine idle in the driveway.

I reach for the door handle, eager to escape the cage of his car, but his deep, raspy voice stops me cold.

"Pack your things tonight," Dominic says, his eyes fixed straight ahead on the road as I alight the car. "I'll be back tomorrow morning to take you to my house."