Too Bruised to Stand, She Collapsed in Front of the Mafia Boss and What His Hands Did Next Changed Both Their Lives

"You're taking me where?"

Sophia stood in the middle of Roman’s dressing suite, staring at the long black garment bag hanging from the wardrobe door.

"The Metropolitan Club," Roman answered from behind the folding screen where he was fastening his cufflinks. "Every month, the heads of the Five Families gather under the guise of an Italian-American charitable foundation dinner. Victor Caruso will be there. The Commission will be there."

"And you're bringing me?" Sophia scoffed, her panic bubbling up into hysterical laughter. "Why? To show off your prize? To tell them you own the girl whose brother stole Caruso’s ledger?"

Roman stepped out from behind the screen.

He wore a bespoke tuxedo of midnight blue, the lapels faced in black silk. His broad frame filled the tailored suit with an aura of lethal sophistication. He looked like an emperor who had never once questioned his right to rule.

He walked over to the garment bag, unzipped it, and pulled out an evening gown.

Sophia’s breath stalled.

It was emerald green—the deep, rich hue of pine needles after rain. It was made of heavy silk velvet, featuring an asymmetric neckline designed to drape elegantly over her left collarbone while completely concealing her bruised ribs and swollen flank. It was accompanied by long, matching velvet gloves that would hide her calloused, work-worn hands.

"I am not bringing a prize, Sophia," Roman said, holding the dress toward her. "I am bringing a witness."

"A witness to what?"

"To Victor Caruso’s execution."

Sophia stepped back, her pulse pounding in her ears. "You're going to kill him in front of everyone?"

"Men like Victor are not killed with bullets, Sophia. Bullets turn scum into martyrs for their cousins to avenge." Roman hung the dress back on the hook. "Men like Victor are executed by stripping them of their legitimacy. We are going to present the ledger to the Commission. When they see the names of the girls, when they see the unauthorized cargo he brought through their ports... the Commission will vote to liquidate his entire syndicate."

"And what happens to me?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What happens to the girl who knows too much?"

Roman stepped close, closing the distance until Sophia could feel the radiant heat of his body. He reached out, his thumb gently tracing the faint yellow bruise along her cheekbone—the last lingering reminder of the Queens alleyway.

"At that table," Roman whispered, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her knees feel weak, "you will not be Sophia Mercer, the destitute mechanic from Queens."

"Then who will I be?"

"You will be mine," Roman said.

The word hung between them like a live wire.

"My fiancée," Roman elaborated, though his voice lacked any hint of mockery. "The Commission has laws, Sophia. Ancient, rigid laws. A boss may not harm the family of another boss without a unanimous mandate. If you sit at my side wearing my ring, Caruso cannot touch you. His men cannot touch you. And your brother's debt dies tonight."

"And when tonight is over?" she challenged, her hazel eyes flashing with defiant pride. "Do I stay your fake bride forever?"

Roman’s lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile—the first real smile she had ever seen on his face.

"That, Sophia, will depend entirely on whether you survive dinner."

An hour later, the black dress transformed her.

Dr. Chen had worked miracles with makeup, concealing the remaining discoloration on Sophia’s face until her skin looked like polished porcelain. Her dark hair was pinned up in an intricate, classic chignon, leaving her slender neck bare except for a single, dazzling emerald necklace Roman had sent to her room.

When she stepped into the private elevator where Roman waited, his breath hitched.

It was almost imperceptible—just a slight widening of his dark pupils, a tightening of his fingers around his silver cane—but Sophia saw it. For the first time, Roman Vale wasn't looking at Thomas Mercer’s daughter.

He was looking at *her*.

"You look magnificent," he said, offering his arm.

Sophia hesitated for half a second before slipping her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow. His bicep felt like carved steel beneath the silk of his jacket.

"If I pass out from these ribs," she warned under her breath, "don't let me hit the floor."

Roman’s hand covered hers, his grip warm, protective, and unshakeable.