Chapter 5 - THE MAFIA BOSS WHO LEARNED TO TRUST AGAIN
Dominic Carter had built his life around a simple rule.
Trust was a weakness.
People could be bought, threatened, manipulated, or frightened into obedience.
But genuine loyalty?
That was a fairy tale men told themselves before someone put a knife in their backs.
Then Faith Willis walked into his life with cheap boots, an eviction notice, and absolutely no interest in obeying him.
And somehow, she had become the one person he wanted to trust.
Three days after the attack, Dominic sat inside a private rehabilitation clinic overlooking Lake Michigan.
Rebecca Shaw stood beside him.
Across the room, a neurologist named Dr. Hannah Pierce reviewed his scans.
Faith waited near the window.
Dominic had insisted she accompany him.
Not because he needed someone to push his wheelchair.
He had a driver for that.
He wanted her there because he was afraid.
And Faith was the only person who made him feel less ashamed of admitting it.
Dr. Pierce turned from the monitor.
"Mr. Carter, your injury is serious."
Dominic's stomach tightened.
"Tell me something I don't know."
She ignored the sarcasm.
"Your imaging shows residual damage, but also preserved neural structures. That doesn't guarantee meaningful recovery."
Faith stepped closer.
"But?"
"But I don't believe your rehabilitation potential was adequately assessed."
Dominic stared at her.
"What does that mean?"
"It means we need to establish your current baseline and begin a carefully supervised program."
"Can I walk?"
Dr. Pierce met his eyes.
"I can't promise that."
Dominic looked down.
"But I can promise," she continued, "that we'll give you an honest assessment and work toward the best function possible."
For a long moment, Dominic said nothing.
Then he nodded.
"All right."
Rehabilitation began the following morning.
Dominic hated every second.
The exercises were exhausting.
Movements that once required no thought now demanded intense concentration.
His physical therapist, Marcus Reed, was a former Army medic with a calm voice and no patience for excuses.
"Again."
Dominic glared at him.
"I've done it six times."
"Then you know how."
"My leg isn't moving."
"Not voluntarily yet. We're working on strength, positioning, and control."
Dominic slammed his fist against the wheelchair arm.
"This is pointless."
Marcus stepped back.
"Take a break."
"I don't need a break."
"Then stop shouting and focus."
Dominic stared at him.
Marcus stared back.
From the doorway, Faith pressed her lips together.
Dominic noticed.
"Are you laughing?"
"No."
"You are."
"Only a little."
He scowled.
Faith smiled.
And somehow, the tension broke.
Over the next two weeks, Dominic changed in ways nobody expected.
He stopped throwing food.
He began eating downstairs with the household staff.
He apologized to Mrs. Gable for breaking her favorite vase.
The older woman nearly dropped her coffee.
"You don't need to apologize, sir."
"Yes," Dominic replied quietly. "I do."
He started attending rehabilitation sessions regularly.
Some days were terrible.
Some were worse.
But Faith remained nearby, encouraging him without pretending progress would be easy.
One afternoon, after a particularly frustrating session, Dominic found her sitting in the garden.
She was reading an old paperback.
He wheeled beside her.
"What is it?"
"A romance novel."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Those things still exist?"
"Apparently."
"What's it about?"
"A stubborn man who doesn't know how to admit he's in love."
Dominic looked offended.
"Sounds unrealistic."
Faith laughed.
He watched her.
Sunlight caught the loose strands of her brown hair.
For a moment, he forgot the wheelchair.
Forgot Carmine.
Forgot the empire waiting beyond the mansion walls.
He simply watched a woman laugh.
And realized he wanted to hear that sound every day.
That evening, Faith discovered something unexpected.
Dominic could cook.
Or at least, he used to.
She found him in the kitchen arguing with the chef about pasta sauce.
"You're burning the garlic."
The chef sighed.
"Mr. Carter, I've been cooking professionally for twenty years."
"And apparently doing it wrong for twenty years."
Faith leaned against the doorway.
"Should I call the fire department?"
Dominic turned.
"Very funny."
She approached.
"What are you making?"
"Sunday sauce."
"It's Thursday."
"Then Thursday sauce."
Faith laughed.
Dominic rolled closer to the stove.
"Give me the wooden spoon."
The chef hesitated.
Dominic raised an eyebrow.
"Please."
The chef handed it over.
Faith noticed the effort it took him to reach the pot safely from his chair.
Without making a fuss, she moved a bowl out of his way.
Dominic noticed that too.
"Thank you," he said.
The words came easily now.
And that frightened him almost as much as the feelings growing inside him.
Later that night, Faith sat with Dominic in the library.
Rain tapped against the windows.
A fire burned low in the hearth.
Dominic was unusually quiet.
Finally, he spoke.
"My father used to make that sauce."
Faith looked up.
"Was he a good cook?"
"The best."
"What happened to him?"
Dominic stared into the fire.
"He was murdered when I was nineteen."
Faith remained silent.
"He ran the waterfront before me. People called him ruthless. Maybe he was."
Dominic swallowed.
"But at home, he was different."
"How?"
"He used to make breakfast for my mother every Sunday."
Faith smiled softly.
"That sounds nice."
"He'd burn the toast every time."
Dominic laughed under his breath.
"She'd eat it anyway."
Faith watched his face.
For the first time, she could see the boy he'd once been.
Not the feared boss.
Not the bitter man in the wheelchair.
Just a son remembering his father.
"Do you miss him?"
"Every day."
Faith nodded.
"I miss my mother too."
Dominic turned.
"You never talk about her."
"She died three years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"She was a rehabilitation nurse."
Dominic's expression softened.
"That's how you knew what to do when my leg spasmed."
"Some of it. Mostly, I knew you were scared."
He looked away.
"I wasn't scared."
Faith raised an eyebrow.
He sighed.
"Fine. I was terrified."
She smiled.
"That's allowed."
Dominic stared at her.
"Not in my world."
"Maybe that's the problem."
The following morning, Dominic received an unexpected visitor.
A man named Anthony DeLuca.
Anthony had once been his closest business partner.
Since the accident, he'd taken control of several waterfront operations.
He entered Dominic's study wearing an expensive gray suit.
"Dom."
"Anthony."
Anthony glanced at the wheelchair.
"How's recovery?"
"Improving."
The answer seemed to surprise him.
"Really?"
"Really."
Anthony sat.
"We need to discuss the docks."
Dominic leaned back.
"Go ahead."
"Some investors are concerned."
"About?"
"Your ability to lead."
Dominic smiled faintly.
"Are they?"
Anthony shifted.
"They think it might be time to consider a permanent transition."
"To whom?"
Anthony hesitated.
"Someone capable of handling the physical demands."
Dominic's expression hardened.
"Are you suggesting I retire?"
"I'm suggesting you think about what's best for everyone."
Dominic leaned forward.
"Let me tell you what's best for everyone."
Anthony swallowed.
"You'll return every company account and contract you assumed control of without my authorization."
"Dom—"
"Then you'll provide a complete financial audit."
Anthony stood.
"You can't run an empire from a wheelchair."
Dominic's smile vanished.
"Watch me."
That night, Anthony met Carmine inside a private club.
"He knows something," Anthony said.
Carmine poured whiskey.
"How much?"
"Enough to demand the accounts."
Carmine cursed.
Anthony leaned closer.
"We should have finished him in the SUV."
Carmine looked toward the door.
"Lower your voice."
"He's getting stronger."
"Then we stop him."
Anthony's phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
A photograph appeared.
Faith Willis leaving the rehabilitation clinic.
Underneath was a message from an unknown number.
SHE IS THE REASON HE'S RECOVERING.
May you like
Anthony slowly smiled.
"Maybe we're targeting the wrong person."
