"Seven bullets were still inside my body when New York’s most feared crime boss decided to marry me while I was unconscious in the ICU. But just as he slipped a gold ring onto my finger and swore to protect me, his closest guard warned him: 'If she discovers why you already had a secret file on her before she was even shot, she’ll never forgive you.'"

By the end of my second week, I was allowed to walk cautiously down the grand sweeping staircase of the mansion, leaning heavily on the polished mahogany banister. The estate was a sprawling, stone fortress surrounded by iron security gates, manicured gardens, and armed guards patrolling the perimeter twenty-four hours a day.

Isabella Rossi was the only bright spot in the suffocating luxury. She visited me every afternoon in the sunroom, bringing tea, fresh fruit, and genuine maternal warmth that helped soothe my frayed nerves.

“He loves you, you know,” Isabella said softly one afternoon as we sat overlooking the stone courtyard, watching the fountains ripple in the autumn breeze.

I looked down at the heavy gold wedding band resting on my finger—a constant, suffocating reminder of my new reality. “Isabella, he didn't even give me a choice. He married a corpse on an operating table. That isn’t love; that’s obsession and control.”

Isabella sighed, stirring her teacup. “Dominic has spent his entire life protecting this family from wolves. When you threw yourself in front of that bullet, you broke through armor he’s spent forty years building. He couldn't risk losing you.”

“Or maybe,” I whispered bitterly, “he just wanted to own the person who saved his mother.”

Before Isabella could answer, heavy footsteps approached the double doors of the sunroom.

Enzo stepped inside, his face tight with suppressed tension. He nodded respectfully toward Isabella before turning his sharp gaze toward me.

“Mrs. Rossi,” Enzo addressed me formally. “The boss is requesting your presence in his private study on the third floor. He’s reviewing security protocols for the upcoming shipping manifests, and he wants you with him.”

My stomach tightened. Ever since I had woken up with a wedding ring on my finger, Dominic had insisted on keeping me within arm's reach. He didn't trust the security outside the estate, and he certainly didn't trust me to wander the halls alone.

“Tell him I’ll be up in ten minutes,” I replied coldly.

Enzo hesitated, a brief flicker of discomfort crossing his scarred face. “He wants you now, Elena.”

Filiation and defiance warred inside my chest, but I knew better than to push a lion when he was hungry. I stood up slowly, steadying myself against the wicker chair, and walked out of the sunroom, making my way up the winding staircase toward the third-floor executive suite.

The heavy oak door to Dominic’s private study was cracked open.

As I reached the threshold, I heard the low murmur of voices echoing from inside. Dominic was speaking to someone on a secure landline.

“I don't give a damn what the Federal prosecutor is asking,” Dominic’s voice was sharp, laced with cold fury. “Shut down the shipping lane through Port Newark immediately. If the feds are sniffing around our import logs, someone inside the docks leaked the manifest.”

I paused, my hand hovering over the brass door handle.

Then, a second voice answered from across the speakerphone—a voice belonging to one of Dominic’s regional capos.

“Boss, we can’t shut down Newark without alerting the Chicago syndicate. Besides, we’ve got bigger problems. That background file you ordered us to compile on the girl six months ago—before you even put her on the payroll at the Aster Crown—the digital copies are still sitting in the primary server archive. If an audit hits—”

“Delete the archive,” Dominic roared, cutting the capo off with absolute, terrifying finality. “Burn the drives. If anyone ever finds out I had eyes on her before that night at the hotel, I’ll feed you to the river fishes myself.”

Click.

The phone slammed down onto the cradle.

Outside the door, the blood drained entirely from my face. My knees grew weak, and I had to grip the wooden doorframe to keep from collapsing onto the Persian rug.

Before that night.

Dominic hadn't met me by chance when he caught my champagne glass. He hadn't noticed me because I was a struggling waitress.

He had known who I was months before the bullets flew. He had built a file on me, tracked my movements, and engineered my presence at the Aster Crown Hotel long before I ever picked up a catering tray.