Three bullets tore through my body when I threw myself over the mafia boss’s six-year-old son. Everyone expected Victor Romano to reward me with money—but when I woke up, he stood beside my hospital bed and said five words that changed my life forever: “You’re going to be my wife.”

Discharging from the hospital two weeks later felt less like going home and more like being transferred from one prison to another—only this time, the cell was lined with silk and guarded by armed men.

When the black bulletproof Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the Romano estate, the iron gates had already been repaired. They were taller, thicker, and reinforced with biometric scanners.

Victor helped me out of the car. Despite my protests, he scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing, carrying me past the shattered sunroom—now completely rebuilt with reinforced ballistic glass—and straight up the grand staircase to the master wing.

"Victor, I can walk," I protested weakly, my face burning as two armed guards politely looked away.

"Your stitches are still fresh. Quiet," he ordered, though there was no malice in his voice—only an unyielding, stubborn command.

He didn't take me back to the small, sterile maid's quarters in the basement. Instead, he carried me into a sprawling master suite adjacent to his own. The room was decorated in deep charcoals, silvers, and rich emerald velvet, with French doors opening onto a private balcony overlooking the estate gardens.

A queen-sized bed piled high with silk pillows dominated the center of the room. On the mahogany dresser sat a velvet jewelry box the size of a hardback book.

Victor set me down gently on the edge of the bed, kneeling to make sure my feet were resting comfortably on a plush rug.

"This is your room now," he said, rising to his full height. "Across that double door is mine. If you need anything—pain medication, a doctor, or just quiet—you press the bedside buzzer, and Mrs. Gable will answer. Don't get up unless you have to."

Before he could turn toward the door, I reached out and caught the cuff of his shirt.

Victor paused, looking down at my fingers against his dark fabric.

"Why me?" I asked, the question burning a hole in my chest since the hospital. "Out of all the people... out of all the women in your circle, women who understand your world, women from families with power and connections... why choose a girl who used to scrub your marble floors?"

Victor was silent for a long moment. He looked down at my hand, then slowly turned his wrist, his fingers wrapping gently around mine—a gesture so tender it felt foreign on his massive frame.

"Because power in my world is a lie, Clara," he said softly, his voice dropping into a register meant only for me. "Every woman in my social circle wants my name, my money, or my status. They smile in my face and plot how to slit my throat for a piece of the syndicate. They don't see me. They see the throne."

He looked deep into my eyes, his pale gaze stripping away every defense I had.

"You didn't look at my title when you ran across that room," Victor continued, his thumb lightly stroking the back of my hand. "You didn't care that I was the head of the Northern Syndicate. You saw a six-year-old boy who was about to die, and you threw your body between him and the grave. In a house full of monsters, Clara, you were the only real thing left."