"I took 7 bullets for a mob boss’s mother—while I was in a coma, he slipped a gold ring on my finger."

I lay motionless beneath thin white hospital blankets, surrounded by three intravenous poles, two blood transfusion bags, and an automated ventilator tube that hummed softly with every breath it forced into my battered lungs. Seven lead bullets remained lodged deep within my tissues—two inches from my spine, three near my left hip, one splintered against my collarbone, and another dangerously close to my kidney.

Standing at the edge of my bed, his dark midnight tuxedo jacket thrown over a chair, his white dress shirt stained with my dried blood at the cuffs, was Dominic Rossi.

Six-foot-three and broad-shouldered, the thirty-two-year-old Don of New York's primary syndicate stood with his hands resting on the stainless steel bedrail, his storm-gray eyes fixed on my pale, bruised face.

Outside the glass doors, Enzo—Dominic’s lead lieutenant—stood with Father Thomas, a white-haired Catholic priest holding a worn leather prayer book.

Enzo reached out, his hand gripping Dominic’s sleeve with a frantic, low whisper. "Boss, think about what you're doing. The Rossi Council hasn't approved a marriage. If Victor Costa learns you married an ordinary waitress to grant her absolute syndicate protection under our primary laws, he will declare war on our shipping docks before midnight!"

Dominic didn't turn his head. His eyes never left the faint, erratic green line tracing my pulse across the monitor.

"Victor Costa declared war the second he fired seven bullets into a girl who saved my mother's life, Enzo," Dominic spoke. His voice was a low, freezing baritone that dropped the temperature in the corridor below zero. "And under Rossi family law... a Don's wife cannot be questioned, subpoenaed, or touched by any syndicate boss without inviting the total execution of the offending faction."

"And the file, Boss?" Enzo whispered, his voice trembling with a dark, unspoken fear. "The file on her mother in Cleveland? If she wakes up and realizes why you had her name on your desk three weeks before she ever walked into the Aster Crown Hotel... she will look at that gold ring like a pair of handcuffs."

Dominic went completely still. His broad shoulders squared as he reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a simple, heavy band of solid twenty-four-karat gold.

"She won't discover it until Victor Costa is buried, Enzo," Dominic commanded flatly. "Father... step inside."

Father Thomas stepped into the ICU room, his hands trembling slightly as he opened his prayer book over my unconscious body.

Dominic reached down, taking my swollen, ice-cold right hand into his broad, calloused palm. He didn't rush. With a gentle, reverent precision that belied the lethal strength in his fingers, he slipped the heavy gold band onto my ring finger.