Chapter 3 - The Wrath of the Dragon
The sharp, metallic scent of iron and adrenaline filled the master bathroom.
Dante Romano knelt on the cold marble floor, his massive frame trembling—not with fear, but with a blind, murderous rage that threatened to consume everything in its path.
He lifted Mina’s limp body into his arms, ignoring the way her silk gown rustled against the floor. Her skin was freezing to the touch. Her breathing was shallow, faint, and terrifyingly weak.
“Mina,” Dante muttered, his voice cracking—a sound no rival mob boss had ever heard in his entire life. “Mina, open your eyes.”
He kicked the bathroom door open with his foot and carried her swiftly to the king-sized bed in the master bedroom, laying her down as gently as if she were made of spun glass. He grabbed his encrypted satellite phone from the nightstand.
“Leo,” Dante roared the instant the call connected. Arthur Avenue could have burned to the ground and Dante wouldn't have sounded this dangerous. “Get Dr. Sterling to the penthouse immediately. If he is not here in five minutes, I will dismantle his entire medical practice brick by brick.”
“Boss, what—?”
“MOVE!” Dante slammed the phone down, shattering the glass screen against the wooden floorboards.
He turned back to the bed. His gaze fell upon the crumpled piece of paper that had slipped from her cold, trembling fingers onto the Persian rug. Slowly, deliberately, Dante bent down and picked it up.
He read the words printed on the cheap sheet of printer paper: Maybe lose another twenty pounds before embarrassing him in public again.
A chilling silence descended upon the penthouse. Dante’s hand tightened around the paper. Veins bulged along his thick forearms, and a low, guttural growl vibrated deep within his chest. He didn't just feel anger; he felt a sickness in his soul. He had brought her into his world of blood, enemies, and ruthless power, promising her safety. And while he had been fighting boardroom wars, someone inside his own fortress—or someone close enough to reach her—had been systematically poisoning her mind, driving his wife to the brink of starvation.
Within minutes, Dr. Sterling—a discreet, high-priced private physician who served New York’s criminal elite—burst into the penthouse, escorted by a pale and frantic Leo Mercer.
Dr. Sterling rushed to the bedside, snapping open his medical bag. He checked Mina’s pulse, pulled out a stethoscope, and began administering an IV saline drip with glucose to combat severe dehydration and malnutrition.
“She’s suffering from extreme starvation and exhaustion, Mr. Romano,” Dr. Sterling said carefully, wiping sweat from his forehead under Dante’s terrifying glare. “Her blood sugar is dangerously low. Her body has completely shut down. She needs immediate hospitalization, or—or her organs could begin to fail.”
“She is not leaving this apartment,” Dante commanded, his voice absolute, dropping like a guillotine. “You will set up whatever equipment is necessary here. If she requires specialized care, you will bring it to her. Understood?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Dr. Sterling stammered.
Dante turned his cold, piercing eyes toward Leo Mercer, who stood stiffly by the bedroom door, reading the silent fury radiating from his boss.
“Leo,” Dante whispered.
“Boss?”
“Find out who slid that note under the door.” Dante stepped closer to his head of security, his shadow swallowing the room. “Check the security logs for the private elevator. Check every camera in the building, every parking garage receipt, every visitor registry. And when you find out who is responsible—” Dante’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. “—bring them to me. Intact or in pieces, I don't care. But they will answer to me.”
“Consider it done,” Leo said, his own face hardening. He turned sharply and strode out of the room.
Dante sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking Mina’s cold, fragile hand in his large, scarred palm. He pressed her knuckles against his lips, his dark eyes burning with a terrifying vow.
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Whoever had done this to her—whether it was a mocking socialite, a jealous rival, or a traitor in his own ranks—would soon learn that Dante Romano’s wife was off-limits.
And the reckoning would be absolute.
