Chapter 3 - The Diagnosis of the Hidden
The private clinic on the thirtieth floor of the Moretti Tower didn't look like a hospital. It looked like an upscale executive suite, except for the high-end diagnostic machinery tucked neatly behind panels of brushed steel and frosted glass.
Dr. Harrison, a sharp-eyed man in his late fifties with neat silver temples and the calm demeanor of a military surgeon, moved around the examination table with practiced efficiency. Dominic stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his long black overcoat unbuttoned, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets as he watched the doctor work.
Jenna lay beneath a crisp white sheet, a warm IV line already taped to the back of her hand, pumping saline and high-grade painkillers into her system. The fog in her brain had cleared slightly, replaced by a floating, detached sensation that made the pain in her side bearable.
"Two ribs fractured on the left side, Dominic," Dr. Harrison said, sliding a digital tablet across the stainless-steel counter. "Clean breaks, thankfully. No puncture to the lung tissue, though the bruising is extensive. The left wrist is severely sprained, and the orbital bone around the right eye has a hairline crack. She’s concussed, but the pupillary response is stable."
Dominic didn't look at the tablet. His eyes remained fixed on Jenna’s face—specifically on the dark, swelling purple mask that had ruined the soft symmetry of her right cheek. "The cop used his boots."
"Yes," Harrison sighed, packing away his ophthalmoscope. "Typical defensive markings on the forearms too. She tried to cover her head. She’ll need four weeks of absolute rest, binding for the torso, and a soft brace for the wrist. But the physical injuries aren't what concerns me most, Dominic."
The doctor paused, looking at the crime boss with a gravity that made the room feel instantly smaller. "The blood work shows elevated levels of chronic cortisol. This wasn't the first time, not by a long shot. She’s been living in a state of sustained terror for months, possibly years."
Jenna shifted on the table, her voice sounding small and distant in the sterile room. "Three years."
Dominic walked over to the side of the table, his tall frame blocking the bright overhead surgical lights. He looked down at her, the harshness of his chiseled features softening just a fraction into an expression that looked remarkably like respect. "Why didn't you leave?"
"He's a cop," Jenna said, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping her throat before she winced from the strain on her ribs. "Every time I tried to pack a bag, he’d remind me who controls the reports. He said if I walked out that door, he’d have me picked up for possession, or theft, or domestic assault against him. He knew the judges, Mr. Moretti. He knew the internal affairs guys. Who was going to take the word of a night-shift baker over a decorated detective?"
Dominic reached down, his large, bare hand resting flat on the edge of the mattress near her uninjured arm. His skin was warm, his fingernails neatly trimmed, his wrist showing the edge of a platinum watch that cost more than her entire apartment building.
"I don't care about his badge, Jenna," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register that signaled the end of a debate. "And I certainly don't care about his friends in the municipal court. In this city, the law is an opinion. My opinion is the only one that carries a permanent guarantee."
He looked back at Dr. Harrison. "Move her to the guest suite on thirty-five. Put two men on the elevator corridor and two on the fire escape. If anyone logs a call to the public safety building from this floor, they don't live to see the shift change."
"Sir," Jenna called out, her fingers twitching toward his sleeve before she caught herself. "I can't stay here. I have a job at the bakery on Grand. I have rent to pay. I have... I can't just disappear into a tower."
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Dominic stopped at the double doors, his hand resting on the brass handle. He didn't look back at her, but his profile against the hallway light looked like something carved out of the side of a mountain. "The bakery on Grand is owned by a subsidiary of Moretti Logistics, Miss Miller. You've been working for me for two years without even knowing it. Consider this your paid administrative leave. Rest."
The doors clicked shut behind him, leaving Jenna alone with the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the realization that she hadn't just escaped her monster—she had been claimed by the man who owned him.
