Chapter 7 - The Second Time He Asked
Dominic survived.
Barely.
The bullet missed his heart by less than two inches.
When the surgeon told us, Isabella collapsed into a chair and laughed while crying.
Enzo walked into a hallway and punched a wall.
My mother hugged me.
I sat down on the floor.
Not gracefully.
Not dramatically.
My knees simply stopped working.
For nine days Dominic remained in the hospital.
For the first three, he was unconscious.
I visited every day.
The irony was unbearable.
Same machines.
Same blue hospital light.
Same man beside a bed.
Except now I was the one holding the ring.
I never put it on him.
That choice mattered.
When Dominic finally opened his eyes, I was asleep in the chair.
“Maya.”
His voice was barely audible.
I woke instantly.
“You’re awake.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
Then became angry because he had made me cry.
“You idiot.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“You stepped in front of a bullet.”
“So did you.”
“I had a tray.”
“You had terrible technique.”
I stared.
He smiled weakly.
Alive.
Infuriating.
Alive.
Weeks became months.
Victor Costa was indicted on racketeering, conspiracy, bribery, money laundering and multiple charges connected to decades of corruption.
Father Anthony accepted a deal only after investigators confronted him with the ledger.
His testimony brought down men whose names had appeared on television for years.
Two judges resigned.
A state senator was arrested.
Several corporate executives suddenly discovered urgent reasons to retire.
The Rossi companies were investigated too.
Dominic cooperated.
Fully.
That shocked everyone.
Including Isabella.
He surrendered businesses built on extortion and illegal contracts.
He closed others.
Sold properties.
Paid settlements.
The legitimate holdings remained.
Hotels.
Construction.
Shipping.
Enough money for ten lifetimes.
But Dominic gave up something men like him almost never surrendered voluntarily.
Control.
“I’m tired,” he told me one night.
We sat on the roof of St. Catherine while he recovered.
“Of what?”
“Knowing everyone is afraid of me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You insulted me while holding champagne.”
“You startled me.”
“You called me a criminal.”
“I asked if being new was a crime.”
“You implied it.”
“You’re sensitive.”
He laughed.
Real laughter.
It still surprised me.
My mother completed treatment in Cleveland.
Her condition stabilized.
Dominic quietly paid the remaining bills.
I discovered it three months later.
We fought for an hour.
Then he agreed I could repay him.
At ten dollars a month.
I told him he was mocking me.
He said interest would be reasonable.
I threw a pillow at him.
Isabella watched our relationship with the patience of someone who understood we were both too stubborn to admit what was happening.
We weren’t really husband and wife.
Not emotionally.
Not yet.
Legally, the situation became complicated.
Dominic’s attorneys explained that the ICU ceremony had enough irregularities to be challenged easily.
I could annul it.
Dominic signed the papers before I asked.
He placed them on my kitchen table.
My original kitchen table.
In Queens.
He had returned me to my apartment because I asked.
No guards inside.
Two outside.
We negotiated.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Annulment.”
I looked at him.
“You signed?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“You wanted me to ask before signing the annulment?”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that.”
I sat down.
The papers were simple.
His signature was already there.
Dominic Rossi.
The man who had once decided marriage was necessary while I lay unconscious had finally learned the most important part of loving someone.
Letting them choose.
“If I sign this,” I said, “what happens?”
“We aren’t married.”
“And us?”
His expression changed.
“That’s your decision too.”
“You’re really going to stand there pretending you don’t care?”
“No.”
He sat across from me.
“I care enough not to decide for you again.”
That hurt more than any dramatic declaration could have.
I looked at the papers.
Then at him.
“Do you love me?”
Dominic’s eyes held mine.
“Yes.”
No speech.
No performance.
Just yes.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Terrible answer.”
“I noticed you before the gala.”
“That was surveillance.”
“Yes.”
“Creepy.”
“Yes.”
“When did it change?”
He thought about it.
“When you woke up.”
“Because I survived?”
“Because the first thing you did after discovering you’d been shot seven times was argue with me.”
“That made you fall in love?”
“It made me realize protecting you would be exhausting.”
I smiled despite myself.
He leaned forward.
“Then I watched you refuse my money, confront your mother, argue with armed men, expose Victor and nearly get yourself killed several more times.”
“That sounds less romantic when you summarize it.”
“I’m not romantic.”
“You married an unconscious woman beside an ICU bed.”
His face tightened.
“I regret that.”
I stopped smiling.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Even though it protected me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because protecting you does not excuse taking away your choice.”
There it was.
The answer I had needed.
Not justification.
Not power.
Responsibility.
I closed the annulment papers.
“I’m signing.”
Pain crossed his face.
He hid it quickly.
“Okay.”
That was all.
Okay.
I signed.
Three weeks later, our marriage was legally erased.
Isabella cried.
Enzo said congratulations to both of us and refused to explain why.
My mother understood.
“You needed a beginning that belonged to you,” she said.
Exactly.
Six months after the shooting at the Aster Crown Hotel, I returned there.
Not as a waitress.
The ballroom had been restored.
New chandeliers.
New marble where bullets had damaged the old floor.
The hotel hosted a fundraiser for cardiac patients who could not afford treatment.
My mother helped organize it.
Isabella funded half.
Dominic funded the other half but tried to keep his name off everything.
He failed.
I stood near the service corridor where I had first seen the gunman.
For a moment, I could almost hear the shots again.
Then Dominic appeared beside me.
Black tuxedo.
White shirt.
No weapon visible.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
“A little.”
He didn’t touch me until I reached for his hand.
We stood quietly.
“I used to think this room ruined my life,” I said.
“And now?”
“It ruined one version.”
He looked at me.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I didn’t say the new version was bad.”
Music began.
Guests moved toward their tables.
Dominic didn’t.
Instead he reached into his jacket.
My heartbeat jumped.
“No.”
His hand stopped.
“What?”
“If that’s a gun, this relationship is over.”
For the first time in my life, I saw Dominic Rossi look genuinely offended.
“It’s not a gun.”
“Good.”
He pulled out a small box.
I stared.
“Dominic.”
“This is not the same ring.”
I laughed nervously.
“You prepared that sentence.”
“For weeks.”
He opened the box.
A simple gold ring sat inside.
No family history.
No encryption code.
No blood.
No promise made over an unconscious woman.
Just a ring.
Dominic did not kneel.
Not yet.
He looked at me.
“The first time I put a ring on your hand, you couldn’t answer me.”
My throat tightened.
“I told myself it was protection.”
He paused.
“It was also arrogance.”
I said nothing.
“I thought having power meant I could solve anything if I made the decision fast enough.”
His eyes remained on mine.
“You taught me something worse.”
“Worse?”
“Sometimes you have to wait for someone to choose you.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“That sounds painful.”
“It’s terrible.”
I laughed.
He finally smiled.
Then he lowered himself to one knee.
Several guests noticed.
Isabella noticed first.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
My mother immediately started crying.
Enzo looked far too pleased with himself.
Dominic ignored everyone.
“Maya Mercer.”
“Yes?”
His voice became softer.
“This time you’re awake.”
I laughed through tears.
“Very.”
“This time there are no enemies outside the door.”
“Hopefully.”
“This time there is no deal, no protection agreement, no family rule.”
He held up the ring.
“If you say no, nothing happens.”
I looked at him.
The feared man who once believed love could be enforced by protection.
The wounded son of a dangerous family.
The sixteen-year-old boy who had carried my father’s last promise for twenty years.
The man who had lied to me.
Saved me.
Hurt me.
Trusted me.
Changed.
And finally asked.
“Dominic.”
His expression tightened.
I let him suffer for exactly three seconds.
Then I held out my hand.
“Yes.”
The ballroom erupted.
Isabella cried openly.
My mother laughed.
Enzo shouted something completely inappropriate.
Dominic stood.
He didn’t immediately put the ring on me.
Instead he asked quietly, “May I?”
That nearly broke me.
“Yes.”
He slid the ring onto my finger.
Perfect fit.
No swelling.
No machines.
No blood.
No priest deciding words for me.
Just my hand in his.
My choice.
A year later, Dominic and I moved into a brownstone in Brooklyn.
Not a fortress.
Though he did install absurdly expensive security.
I returned to school and completed my accounting degree.
Using the remaining legal funds recovered from my father’s records, my mother and I created the Daniel Mercer Foundation, providing financial assistance to families facing long-term cardiac treatment.
Isabella volunteered twice a week and terrified hospital administrators into improving patient meals.
Enzo became chief operating officer of Rossi Hospitality.
He still carried a gun.
I chose not to ask.
Dominic spent most mornings in legitimate board meetings and most evenings complaining that legal business involved more paperwork than crime ever had.
I told him that was justice.
The scars never disappeared.
Mine crossed my ribs and shoulder.
His remained beneath his side.
Some nights I still woke hearing gunshots.
Some nights Dominic woke remembering his brother.
We never pretended love erased any of it.
It simply gave us somewhere safe to carry it.
On the anniversary of the shooting, we returned to St. Catherine.
The nurse who had cared for me recognized us.
“You two look different,” she said.
“We sleep now,” I told her.
Dominic disagreed.
“She sleeps diagonally.”
“You own half the bed.”
“I own ten percent.”
“Because you’re dramatic.”
The nurse laughed.
Before we left, I stopped outside the ICU room where I had awakened.
Someone else occupied it now.
Another family waiting beside another bed.
I looked down at my wedding ring.
Dominic slipped his hand into mine.
“Regret anything?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
His face changed.
I smiled.
“I regret accepting that catering shift.”
“That shift brought you to me.”
“It also got me shot seven times.”
“Fair.”
I leaned against him.
“Ask me again.”
“What?”
“The question.”
He understood.
Even after all this time, his expression softened.
“Maya Mercer Rossi.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re taking liberties.”
He smiled.
“Will you marry me?”
I looked at the man beside me.
Then at the ring I had chosen while fully awake.
“Yes.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
May you like
And this time, when Dominic Rossi placed a wedding ring on my hand, there were no machines speaking for my heart.
It was beating loudly enough for both of us to hear.
