2Her Fiancé Said She Was Unfit to Be a Wife, Then the Mafia Boss Asked If She Could Bake and His Children Began Waiting Before Sunrise

The voice didn't come from the house.

It came from the far side of the courtyard, where a massive black pickup truck had pulled quietly onto the gravel driveway.

Vincent Marchetti stepped out into the snow.

He wore a long, heavy dark wool overcoat over his dark suit. He didn't carry a weapon. He didn't have guards with him. He didn't need them. The sheer, terrifying weight of his presence seemed to drop the temperature in the courtyard by ten degrees.

Colin froze, his hand dropping from Grace’s arm as if he had touched a hot stove. He turned, trying to maintain his posture, but his eyes widened as Vincent walked slowly across the snow toward them.

"Who the hell are you?" Colin demanded, though his voice lacked conviction.

Vincent didn't answer him. He didn't even look at Colin. His dark eyes settled on Grace’s face, checking her cheeks, her arm, ensuring she was untouched.

"Are you all right, Grace?" Vincent asked softly.

"I'm fine, Vincent," Grace said, her voice steady.

Vincent finally turned his gaze onto Colin Avery.

It was the look a predator gave a small, noisy animal that had wandered into its lair. Cold. Measuring. Absolutely devoid of mercy.

"You're standing on my private land," Vincent said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You grabbed a woman who lives under my roof. And you spoke to her like she was your property."

Colin swallowed hard. He straightened his charcoal coat, trying to summon the authority he used on his employees in White Plains.

"I am Colin Avery," he said, puffing out his chest. "Owner of Avery Fine Foods. Grace is my fiancée—"

"Grace was your fiancée," Vincent interrupted smoothly, stopping two feet from Colin. He towered over the younger man, his broad shoulders blocking out the winter sun. "Until you told her she was too soft, too full-figured, and too inconvenient for your public relations."

Colin’s face went dead white. "How do you..."

"I know everything about you, Avery," Vincent murmured, leaning down until his scarred cheek was inches from Colin’s face. "I know about the three bank loans you took out last Tuesday to cover the payroll for your new stores. I know about the health inspector who found mold in your distribution center in Yonkers. And I know that if I make three phone calls, your suppliers in the Hudson Valley won't send you a single grain of flour for the next five years."

Colin stepped back, his boots slipping on the icy flagstones. Panic, cold and absolute, flooded his eyes.

"You... you can't do that," Colin stammered. "That's illegal!"

Vincent let out a soft, humorless laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.

"Illegal?" Vincent repeated quietly. "Avery, you came into my valley, onto my ridge, and threatened the woman who restored my family. You should be worrying about whether you leave this driveway on four wheels or in a wooden box."

Colin turned completely pale. He looked at Grace, his eyes begging for help. "Grace... tell him! Tell him to back off!"

Grace looked at Colin. She felt no anger. She felt no hatred. She felt only a deep, profound pity for a man who was so small that he thought power came from suit coats and company logos.

"You should go, Colin," Grace said softly. "Before Mr. Marchetti loses his patience."

Colin didn't wait for a second invitation. He stumbled down the steps, almost falling into the snow, scrambled into his silver Mercedes, and slammed the door. The tires spun wildly on the gravel before catching traction, and the car sped down the driveway toward the iron gates, leaving a cloud of gray exhaust in the cold air.

The courtyard fell dead silent.

Grace stood on the stone steps, watching the silver car disappear through the trees.

Vincent walked up the stairs, stopping beside her. He looked down at her face, his dark eyes filled with a quiet, fierce tenderness.

"He won't bother you again," Vincent said softly. "I'll have my men ensure he stays south of White Plains."

Grace looked up at him. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did," Vincent said. He reached out, his broad hand taking hers, his fingers weaving firmly through hers. "A man who lets a fool disrespect his future wife doesn't deserve to hold her hand."

Grace’s heart stopped. She looked at their joined hands, then up into his dark, burning eyes.

"Future wife?" she whispered.

Vincent didn't blink. He pulled her close against his chest, his arms wrapping around her waist with possessive, unshakeable strength.

"You think I'm letting you leave this ridge, Grace Hollis?" Vincent murmured against her hair. "You brought the light back into this house. You saved my children. And you made me remember what it feels like to be alive."

He stepped back slightly, looking down into her blue-gray eyes with an intensity that made the winter cold vanish completely.

"I don't need packaging," Vincent said, his voice thick with raw emotion. "I don't need publicity. I need you. At my table, in my house, and in my bed for the rest of my life."

Grace looked at the man standing before her—a man who didn't want to change her, who didn't want her to hide, who loved every curve, every scar, and every flour stain on her hands.