Chapter 2 - The Blackwood Sanctuary
The Ashford estate, known in whispered Chicago circles as the Blackwood Sanctuary, sat behind ten-foot stone walls on the rugged edge of Lake Forest. The drive from the hospital had been executed in a three-car convoy of armored SUVs, navigating the downpour with a synchronized precision that felt more like a military extraction than a medical discharge.
Isla sat in the back of the lead vehicle, her hand tightly gripping the handle of her overnight bag. Dominic sat beside her, his face pale, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he absorbed the jarring movement of the road. He hadn't spoken a word since they left the hospital, his eyes fixed on the rain-streaked glass, tracking the tree lines like a soldier expecting an ambush.
When the gates clicked shut behind them, Isla felt a strange shift in the air. The estate was massive—a sprawling structure of dark stone, heavy oak beams, and narrow windows that made it look more like a fortress than a luxury mansion.
“Carter will show you to your quarters,” Dominic said as the vehicle came to a halt under the stone portico. He didn't wait for the driver to open his door; he pushed it open himself, his movements stiff and guarded as he stepped out into the cold wind. “My medical equipment was delivered three hours ago. Set up the clinic room on the ground floor. I don't go upstairs unless it’s necessary.”
Isla followed Carter through the massive front doors. The interior of the house was quiet, smelling of old cedar, polished wood, and the faint, bitter scent of loose-leaf tea. There were no family portraits on the walls, no soft touches of a home—only high ceilings, antique armor, and security monitors glowing in the shadows of the main hallway.
Her quarters were spacious, featuring a private bathroom, a desk, and a window that overlooked the churning gray waters of Lake Michigan. Resting on the bed was a brand-new set of charcoal-gray medical scrubs in her exact size, along with a secure satellite phone.
She changed quickly, her professional instincts overriding her exhaustion. She spent the next two hours organizing the ground-floor library, which had been converted into a high-tech medical suite complete with a hospital-grade bed, oxygen tanks, and a locked cabinet for pharmaceuticals.
At noon, she carried a tray of broth and fresh water into Dominic’s study.
The room was dim, lit only by a fire crackling in the massive stone hearth. Dominic sat behind a heavy mahogany desk, his black shirt unbuttoned halfway to accommodate the bulky bandages beneath. He was reviewing a series of printed logistics ledgers, his pen marking the pages with sharp, angry strokes.
“You shouldn't be sitting at a desk,” Isla said, setting the tray down with a deliberate click. “Your heart rate needs to remain baseline, and the pressure on your lower abdomen could cause the internal stitches to rupture.”
“The Moretti family took three of my shipping berths on the river while I was under anesthesia, Nurse Monroe,” Dominic said without looking up. “If I stay in bed, I won't have an empire left to protect by the time your six weeks are over.”
“If you bleed to death out of stubbornness, the empire won't matter anyway,” Isla replied, stepping around the desk. She didn't ask for permission; she gently but firmly took the pen from his fingers and closed the ledger. “Shirt off. It’s time to check the dressings.”
Dominic’s hand shot out, his fingers locking around her wrist with a sudden, surprising strength. His grip was warm, his gray eyes darkening as he stared up at her. The firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, making him look ancient, dangerous, and incredibly close.
“Don't push me, Isla,” he warned, his voice a low purr.
Isla didn't flinch. She kept her gaze steady, her blue eyes reflecting the flames from the hearth. “You paid me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to keep you alive, Mr. Ashford. That means in this room, my orders override yours. Now, let go of my wrist, or I’ll call Carter in here to help me put you back in bed.”
For a long, tense second, neither of them moved. The silence in the study was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the wood in the fire. Then, slowly, Dominic’s fingers uncurled from her wrist. A faint, dark amusement flickered in the depths of his eyes.
“You really don't have a survival instinct, do you?” he murmured, leaning back in his chair and slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
“I have a very strong one,” Isla said, unpacking her sterile gloves and antiseptic washes from her kit. “That’s why I’m making sure the only man who can pay my bills doesn't die of a stubborn ego.”
As she carefully peeled back the surgical tape, her hands became steady, her movements fluid and practiced. The wounds were brutal—three clean entries across the left flank, the skin angry and red around the neat black nylon sutures. But as she cleaned the area, she noticed something else. His torso was covered in older scars—thin silver lines, jagged punctures, the faded remnants of a life spent in the crucible of violence.
“Who did this to you?” she asked softly, her professional detachment slipping for a split second as her fingers brushed the edge of an old scar near his ribs.
Dominic looked toward the fire, his jaw tightening. “My father’s old friends. The ones who smiled at my baptism and tried to drown me in the river when I turned twenty-one. In my line of work, the people who call you brother are usually the ones holding the knife.”
Isla applied the fresh sterile gauze, her movements gentler than before. “It sounds like a lonely way to live.”
“It’s a safe way to live,” Dominic said. He looked up at her as she finished taping the dressing down, his gaze dropping to her face, tracing the tired lines around her eyes. “What about you, Nurse Monroe? Who keeps you safe on the South Side while you’re busy saving the rest of the world?”
“I keep myself safe,” Isla said, packing up her supplies. “And I have Marco. He’s the only family I have left.”
“Then he is your weakness,” Dominic said softly.
May you like
Isla stopped, her back to him. “He’s not a weakness. He’s my reason.”
“In the streets of Chicago, those two words mean the exact same thing,” Dominic said. “And my enemies know it.”
