Chapter 12 - The Secure Medical Wing
The secure medical wing of the federal penitentiary smelled faintly of antiseptic and polished linoleum, reminding me uncomfortably of Mercy West.
Two federal marshals stood rigidly outside cell 412—a deliberate, ironic assignment arranged by the warden—their arms crossed over their tactical vests.
“You have twenty minutes, Ms. Miller,” the lead guard instructed, unlocking the heavy steel-reinforced door with a loud, echoing mechanical click.
I stepped inside the sterile, austere room, my boots clicking softly against the floor tiles.
Dominic sat on the edge of a narrow institutional cot, wearing a standard grey prison-issue jumpsuit, though his shoulders remained broad and his posture unbowed.
He looked up as the door creaked open, his dark eyes softening instantly when they landed on my face.
“You came back,” he murmured, a faint, weary smile touching the corners of his lips as he stood up slowly, clutching his bandaged side.
“Don’t stand up on my account,” I said quickly, walking over and gently pressing my hand against his shoulder to guide him back down to the mattress.
“I’m not made of glass, Elena,” he replied softly, though he willingly sat back down, wincing only slightly. “Though you certainly treated me like I was for eighty-nine days.”
“You were leaking blood and half-dead,” I retorted, pulling up a metal chair to sit opposite him. “Glass would have been easier to patch up.”
Dominic chuckled, a low, genuine sound that seemed to chase away the cold sterility of the prison room.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, his dark gaze scanning my face with intense, protective concern. “Did the feds give you a hard time?”
“They tried,” I shrugged, leaning forward with my elbows resting on my knees. “Turns out interrogating an ICU nurse who reads Sun Tzu to comatose billionaires is harder than they expected.”
Dominic’s smile widened, a warmth returning to his eyes that made him look less like a feared shipping tycoon and more like the man I had grown to care for.
“Sun Tzu,” he repeated softly. “Chapter three: Attack by Stratagem. I assume you skipped the part about surviving assassins in hospital hallways.”
“That chapter was missing from the paperback,” I replied dryly.
The room fell into a comfortable, quiet silence for a moment, the tension that had bound us together through the bullets and rain finally dissolving into something deeper, something unspoken.
“What happens now, Dominic?” I asked quietly, breaking the stillness. “Julian’s empire is gone. Marcus is ruined. But what about you?”
Dominic looked down at his hands, lacing his fingers together as he stared at the sterile floor.
“The federal prosecutors want a full plea deal,” he said evenly. “Five years in a minimum-security facility in exchange for complete dismantling of the remaining offshore cartels.”
“Five years,” I repeated, the number feeling heavy and hollow in the small room.
“It’s a fair price for a second chance,” Dominic said, looking back up to meet my eyes with absolute clarity. “And when I get out... I won’t be the king of Boston’s ports anymore.”
“Then what will you be?” I asked, my breath catching slightly in my throat.
“Just a man,” Dominic whispered, reaching out to gently brush his knuckles against the back of my hand. “A man who wants to know if there’s still room in your life for someone who isn't a patient.”
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My heart hammered against my ribs, not with the terror of a firefight, but with the terrifying, beautiful possibility of a future I had never allowed myself to dream of.
“You’ve got five years to prove it,” I whispered, a smile breaking across my face as I turned my hand to intertwine my fingers with his.
