Chapter 2 - The Truth in the Master SuiteThe master suite on the second floor was lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp and the flickering embers of the fireplace.
Clara lay beneath the silk sheets, her left arm propped carefully on a feather pillow. The agony in her wrist had deepened into a thumping, relentless fire that made sleep impossible. She had finally peeled off the ivory opera glove, exposing the crude, self-applied fiberglass wrap that bound her arm from knuckle to mid-forearm.
She heard the heavy click of the bedroom door lock.
Clara sat up quickly, wincing as she pulled the blanket over her lap.
Dominic walked into the room. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket or his tie. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the hard muscles and dark tattoos tracing his skin. His face was unreadable—a wall of cold, carved marble.
Behind him walked Dr. Marcus Vance, carrying two aluminum medical cases.
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs. "Dominic... what is Dr. Vance doing here at two in the morning?"
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He walked to the edge of the bed, pulled up a velvet chair, and sat down directly beside her.
He reached out, gently pulling the blanket away from her left side, exposing the bulky, ugly fiberglass splint resting on the pillow.
Clara froze. The breath left her lungs in a ragged gasp.
"You missed a pearl button," Dominic spoke softly, his deep voice carrying a terrifying quietness. "The flash caught the edge of the fiberglass beneath the silk."
Clara looked down at her arm, then up into his storm-gray eyes. "Dominic... listen to me—"
"Dr. Vance," Dominic interrupted without looking away from her face. "Examine her."
Dr. Vance stepped forward quickly, unrolling a set of shears. With practiced, silent precision, he cut away Clara’s crude homemade splint, exposing her swollen, dark purple forearm and bruised wrist.
Dominic’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. He didn't look away from the violent purple bruising covering his wife's skin—skin he had sworn to protect with his life.
"Distal radius fracture," Dr. Vance declared quietly after running the portable X-ray scanner over her arm. "Slightly displaced. She built this splint herself using medical-grade tape and quick-set fiberglass. If she had kept this on for another three days without proper orthopedic setting, she would have suffered permanent nerve damage in her hand."
Dominic stood up slowly. The sheer physical authority of his six-foot-two frame seemed to consume all the air in the room.
"Set it properly, Marcus," Dominic commanded, his voice tight. "Give her the nerve block first."
"Dominic, please!" Clara cried out as Dr. Vance prepared an injection. "I did it for the family! I did it for peace!"
Dominic waited until Dr. Vance had administered the localized painkiller and wrapped her arm in a sleek, professional black fiberglass cast. Once the doctor packed his equipment and quietly exited the suite, closing the door behind him, Dominic sat back down on the edge of the mattress.
He took her right hand—her healthy hand—in both of his calloused palms.
"Who told you to lie to me, Clara?" Dominic asked. The rage in his voice was no longer explosive; it was a cold, razor-sharp edge of absolute focus.
Clara swallowed hard, tears finally spilling over her lashes as the pain block released the tight knot in her chest. "Nobody told me to lie..."
"Don't," Dominic warned softly. "You have two years of abandoned nursing school, Clara. You know how dangerous an unset fracture is. You wouldn't risk your own body just to hide a bruise. Someone told you that if I saw a broken bone, I would go to war. Who was it?"
Clara looked into his eyes, realizing that keeping the secret was no longer possible.
"It was Leo," she whispered.
Dominic didn't blink. "What did Leo say to you in the Meridian garage while security was chasing the attacker?"
"He came up to me while you were at the command car," Clara wept, her voice trembling. "He looked at my arm. He saw me crying. He told me... he told me that if you saw my arm was broken, you would execute old man Falco’s sons before sunrise. He said a war would destroy everything you built. He told me to go to an urgent care under my maiden name and keep my mouth shut until the peace treaty was signed."
Dominic went completely still.
A terrible, cold clarity settled into his mind like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
Leo hadn't tried to protect the peace.
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Leo had spent three days pushing Dominic to attack the Falco distribution hubs, using the garage incident as justification—while simultaneously convincing Clara to hide her broken arm so Dominic wouldn't investigate the scene too closely.
Leo didn't want peace. Leo wanted a bloodbath. And he had used Clara’s fractured arm to orchestrate it.
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