"Seven bullets were still lodged in my body when a Mafia Boss married my unconscious frame—and he already had a file on me."

While New York's crime families whispered about the sudden, shocking marriage between the ruthless Don of the Rossi Syndicate and an unknown twenty-six-year-old diner waitress, the medical team at St. Catherine worked around the clock under the watchful eye of armed Rossi enforcers posted at every elevator bank, stairwell, and rooftop access point.

In the dark recesses of my unconscious mind, there was no mafia, no gold ring, and no crime boss. There was only the blinding pain of shattering glass, the metallic taste of copper, and the terrifying memory of my mother, Ellen, sitting in her medical room in Cleveland waiting for money that would never arrive.

On the fourth morning, the heavy darkness began to recede.

I opened my eyes slowly, my vision blurred by intravenous medication and the harsh, sterile white light of the private recovery suite. The rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor was the first thing I recognized, followed by the faint scent of fresh lilies and leather.

I tried to lift my right hand to pull the oxygen cannula from my nose, but a heavy weight held my fingers pinned to the mattress.

I turned my head inch by inch.

Sitting in a high-backed leather armchair beside my bed, still wearing a immaculate dark suit, was the broad-shouldered man from the hotel ballroom—Dominic Rossi. His eyes were closed, dark shadows beneath his lower lids revealing he hadn't slept in days, but his large hand remained firmly wrapped around mine.

I tried to speak, but my throat felt like dry sand. "M... Mom..."

Dominic’s eyes snapped open instantly. The cold, lethal expression that usually defined his severe features melted into a look of intense, quiet relief.

"Don't try to talk," Dominic commanded softly, leaning forward, his thumb gently smoothing over the back of my hand. "Your lungs are still healing."

My gaze drifted down to our joined hands. Sunlight streaming through the reinforced glass window caught the bright, polished glare of a heavy gold band sitting snug against my swollen knuckle.

I stared at it in silent, drug-addled confusion.

Dominic noticed my gaze. He didn't pull his hand away, nor did he offer an easy smile. He leaned closer, his dark gray eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding intensity.

"You're safe, Clara," he said quietly. "Your mother's medical bills in Cleveland were paid in full two days ago. She has been transferred to the top cardiovascular suite in the country."