A six-year-old boy proposed to me while I was hiding from the men my stepmother had sent to collect me like property. I laughed, sealed our ridiculous engagement with a pinky promise, and said yes, only for the storage-room door to burst open seconds later and reveal that my new “fiancé” was the son of Michael Moretti, the most feared mafia boss on the East Coast.

"Dad, this is Aurora," Zach repeated, his high-pitched voice ringing out proudly through the cramped storage room. He tightened his small fingers around mine, puffing out his little chest. "She’s my fiancée now. I promised to protect her from the witch."

Michael Moretti didn't move. He stood frame-filled in the shattered doorway, his dark grey wool coat dusted with light snow from the Brooklyn night outside.

The air in the room instantly plunged below freezing. Behind him, two hulking men in matching tactical suits had their hands resting casually over the leather holsters beneath their jackets. Their eyes scanned the flour sacks, the rusty shelves, and finally my face with ruthless, mechanical precision.

Michael’s sharp gray eyes drifted down from my face to our linked hands, lingering on the way Zach’s tiny pinky was still hooked tightly around mine.

Then he looked at the dented frying pan I was still holding up in a defensive stance.

"Your fiancée," Michael said. His voice was a low, velvet baritone—devoid of anger, yet carrying a dark, heavy gravity that made every nerve ending in my body scream to run.

"Yes!" Zach said firmly. "We made a pinky promise. That means it’s legally binding, right, Dad?"

A faint, unreadable shift occurred in Michael’s expression. It wasn't a smile—men like Michael Moretti didn't smile in dark alleys—but the terrifying coldness in his eyes shifted slightly as he looked at his son.

Before I could clear the lump of terror in my throat to explain, heavy, chaotic footsteps echoed from the restaurant's kitchen hallway behind Michael.

"Aurora! I know you're in that back room, you little rat!"

Regina’s shrill, nicotine-raspy voice burst through the narrow corridor, followed by the heavy, thudding boots of two men.

"Tony’s guys are losing their patience, Aurora! You think hiding in the flour is gonna save you?!" Regina barged around the corner, her bleached-blonde hair disheveled, a cheap leopard-print coat wrapped around her thin frame. Behind her stood two thick-necked loan shark enforcers wearing leather jackets, one of them slapping a metal baton against his palm.

Regina stopped abruptly, nearly tripping over her own high heels as she ran straight into the back of Michael’s broad shoulders.

"Hey! Get out of the damn way!" the guy with the baton barked, shoving forward without looking at who he was pushing. "We’re collecting a debt for Tony, and—"

One of Michael’s men, a scarred killer named Lev, moved so fast he was a blur.

In a single fluid motion, Lev grabbed the enforcer’s wrist, twisted it back until the bone popped with a nauseating CRACK, snatched the metal baton mid-air, and slammed the heavy end straight into the second thug’s kneecap.

The two loan sharks hit the greasy tile floor screaming, one clutching a shattered wrist, the other groaning in agony as blood pooled around his knee.

Regina let out a high-pitched shriek, stumbling backward against the wall, her hands flying to her mouth. "What the hell?! Who do you think you are?! Tony runs this block!"

Michael didn't even bother to turn around to look at the groaning men on the floor. He kept his slate-grey gaze fixed entirely on me.

"Are these the people you're hiding from?" Michael asked quietly.

I swallowed hard, stepping slightly in front of Zach out of sheer instinct, keeping my frypan raised just an inch. "She... she’s my stepmother. She sold me to a loan shark named Tony to cover her gambling debts."

Michael’s eyes flicked to the dark blue bruises encircling my thin wrists, then up to the small cut near the corner of my lip where Regina had backhanded me two days ago in Queens.

"How much?" Michael asked.

Regina, realizing she was outmatched by the sheer deadliness of the men in front of her, stammered frantically from the hallway. "F-Fifty thousand dollars! That’s what she owes! I mean... what I owe! But she’s my late husband’s property! I have the right to—"

Michael finally turned his head half an inch, his grey eyes sweeping over Regina with absolute, soul-crushing disgust.

"Lev," Michael said softly.

"Boss?"

"Call Tony," Michael ordered, his tone as flat as an executioner's line. "Tell him his debt with this woman is paid in full. Then tell him if I ever see his men within five miles of Brooklyn again, I will burn his club to the ground with him inside it."

Regina’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. "W-What? Who are you?"

Lev pulled a sleek black smartphone from his breast pocket, tapping the screen instantly. "Understood, Mr. Moretti."

The name hit the quiet storage room like a bomb.

Regina’s eyes went wide as saucers. The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a corpse standing up. "M-Moretti? Michael... Moretti?"

"Get her out of my sight," Michael said flatly.

Two more suited guards appeared from the shadows of the hallway, seizing Regina by her arms. She didn't even fight back; she was trembling so violently she could barely keep her feet under her as they dragged her out toward the alleyway.

The storage room fell into a suffocating, heavy silence, broken only by the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.

Michael stepped into the room, his tall frame blocking out what little light was coming from the hallway. He looked down at his six-year-old son, who was still holding my hand with a look of absolute triumph on his small face.

"See, Dad?" Zach said proudly, looking up at his father. "I told you I was going to protect her. Now she’s coming home with us."

Michael slowly crouched down, bringing his massive frame down to eye level with his son. The dark wool of his coat brushed against the dusty floorboards, but he didn't care.

"Zachary," Michael said, his tone firm but underlyingly gentle. "You ran away from your bodyguard at the clinic. You walked six blocks in the snow. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

Zach lowered his head, his small shoulders slumping slightly. "I'm sorry, Dad. But I didn't want to get the flu shot. And... and if I didn't hide in here, I wouldn't have found Aurora."

Zach looked back up, his brown eyes filled with an earnest, desperate plea that only a child could pull off.

"Please, Dad. The witch was going to sell her. You always say a Moretti keeps his promises. I promised her she would be safe with us."

Michael remained silent for three agonizing seconds. Then, he stood up, his towering presence filling the small space once more. He looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my dirt-stained sweater, my exhausted eyes, and the dented frying pan still trembling in my hand.

"What's your name?" Michael asked.

"Aurora," I whispered. "Aurora Vance."

Michael extended his hand toward me—not to shake, but to take the absurd kitchen utensil from my grip. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then allowed him to gently slip the frying pan out of my cold, calloused fingers. He handed it casually to Lev behind him.

"Well, Miss Vance," Michael said, his grey eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying, inescapable intensity. "It appears my son has officially entered into a contract with you. And in my family... we take our contracts very seriously."