Page 46 of Bound in Ruin

"Well," Abram chuckles, raising his glass toward Rosalia in quiet respect. "Touché."

I let the ghost of a smirk touch my lips, swirling the dark wine in my glass.

After dinner, the party splits as the waiters clear the dessert plates.

I step toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the private terrace with Abram, Marcus, and Yulian, lit cigars in hand, to finalize the shipping routes we skirted around during the card game.

Behind us, the wives lead Rosalia toward the adjacent terrace lounge, heading out into the cool night air to gather around the marble fire pit for post-dinner cordials and espresso.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the shift in dynamic on the terrace. Beatrice and Anya are trailing Rosalia now, completely captivated by her, hanging on her words like converts while Elena lingers near the railing, nursing her drink in bitter silence.

Good.

Rosalia established her authority, and the pack instinctively aligned with the stronger presence.

I turn my full attention back to the men, keeping my voice low and measured as we talk numbers and territorial boundaries over the low burn of our cigars. Abram and Marcus nod along, fully receptive, the edge taken off their egos by the deliberate pacing of the card game.

The next time I glance over toward the lounge, the atmosphere has changed. The women are scattered across the far side of the space, laughing together near the marble bar.

Rosalia is standing near the hallway leading back from the rest rooms. A man—someone's extended guest or a wealthy frequent flyer at the casino—is leaning far too close to her. Even from across the room, her body language screams irritation. Her arms are crossed, her face turned away, looking deeply uninterested as he continues to talk over her.

She makes a move to step right past him, cutting the interaction short, but the fool makes the fatal mistake of reaching out and grabbing her hand to pull her back.

I don't think.

I cross the distance between the glass doors and the hallway in seconds, the world narrowing down to the exact spot where his fingers touch her skin.

Before he can even register my shadow falling over him, I have a fist clamped into the front collar of his designer shirt. I wrench him upward, lifting him clear off the ground until his leather shoes are dangling inches above the polished marble. His eyes go wide with instant, unadulterated terror as his hands claw uselessly at my wrist, his face rapidly losing color.

"Dominic, stop."

Rosalia’s hand suddenly lands firm against my chest, her fingers digging through my suit jacket. She steps directly into my space, her eyes steady on mine, placing herself right between me and the suffocating man.

I let go.

He clatters onto the marble floor in a heap of tangled limbs and gasping breaths, scrambling backward like a terrified animal until his back hits the far wall. He looks up at me, white-faced, stammering apologies that I don't care to listen to.

I don't look down at him. My eyes stay locked on Rosalia, a dark, hot pressure expanding behind my ribs. The violent impulse to snap every finger on the hand he used to touch her beats rhythmically against my temples, but I keep my jaw set, my face an impenetrable mask.

"Get out," I say, my voice dangerously low, stripped of any volume but carrying enough weight to make the man stumble frantically to his feet and bolt into the hallway.

The lounge has gone quiet. Across the room, Abram, Marcus, and the rest of the terrace guests are watching in uneasy silence. The dark edge of my control has cracked just enough for them to see what lives underneath, but I have no interest in offering an explanation or smoothing it over with polite small talk.

"We're leaving," I tell Rosalia.

I take her by the elbow—firmly, though careful not to squeeze—and lead her away from the terrace before anyone can utter a word of farewell. We pass through the private doors, past the bow of the floor manager, and straight out into the cool night air where the driver already stands with the door to the car held wide.

I usher her inside and slide in beside her, slamming the heavy door shut behind us.

The engine hums to life, and the private casino dissolves into the dark city lights outside the tinted glass. Inside the cabin, the silence is thick, suffocating, and charged. I sit back against the leather, staring straight ahead, the image of his fingers around her wrist still burning behind my eyes.

I flex my hand against my knee, feeling the lingering urge to tear the whole world down.

This woman will be the end of me. I just know it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ROSALIA