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.

Living in the Moretti mansion was like living inside a gilded fortress surrounded by invisible landmines.

By the end of my first week, I had been given a sprawling guest suite on the second floor, a completely new wardrobe of elegant, understated clothes, and access to the sprawling grounds. But I couldn't cross a single threshold without two silent, heavily armed shadows—usually Lev or a quiet guard named Mateo—following ten paces behind me.

My days, however, belonged entirely to Zach.

"Look, Aurora! I drew the dragon!" Zach yelled, sliding across the polished hardwood floor of the sunroom, holding up a bright red crayon drawing.

I laughed, setting down my tea to inspect the masterpiece. "That's incredible, Zach! But wait... why does the dragon have superhero boots?"

"Because he has to kick the bad guys!" Zach explained solemnly, climbing onto the sofa beside me and tucking his feet under his legs. He leaned his head against my shoulder, his small body relaxing entirely. "Dad said the bad guys aren't allowed near our house anymore."

I smoothed his dark hair, a gentle warmth blossoming in my chest. Over the past seven days, the hyper-vigilant, terrified boy I met in the restaurant pantry had slowly begun to fade. He was eating full meals, laughing, and showing me every secret hiding spot in the massive estate.

"Your dad is right," I murmured. "Nobody can hurt us here."

"Are you gonna marry him for real?" Zach asked suddenly, looking up at me with wide, innocent brown eyes.

I nearly choked on my breath. "Zach... sweetie, we talked about this. The promise we made was just a pretend game to keep us safe."

"It wasn't pretend for me," Zach insisted, crossing his small arms stubbornly. "Dad needs a princess too. He works all night, and he forgets to smile. When you're in the room, he doesn't look as scary."

I opened my mouth to respond, but a shadow fell across the doorway of the sunroom.

Michael stood there, stripped of his usual suit jacket, his crisp white dress shirt rolled up at the forearms, revealing thick, corded muscle and intricate black ink tattoos spanning his right wrist. He was holding a leather dossier, his gray eyes fixed entirely on me.

"Zach," Michael said smoothly. "Mrs. Gable made hot chocolate in the kitchen. Go get some."

Zach's eyes lit up. "With extra marshmallows?!"

"Two extra," Michael bargained.

Zach scampered out of the room like a flash of lightning, his small socks squeaking against the wood floor until his footsteps faded down the hall.

Michael walked into the room, taking the seat Zach had just vacated. The sudden proximity of his towering frame sent a familiar, electric tension humming through the air between us.

"Is he bothering you with his wedding plans again?" Michael asked, a rare, microscopic twitch of amusement touching his lips.

"He's six," I said softly, looking down at my hands. "He's just looking for stability, Mr. Moretti."

"Michael," he corrected flatly. "If you're going to live under my roof, stop calling me like I'm your landlord."

"Michael," I repeated, the name feeling heavy and smooth on my tongue. "He asked if we were getting married for real."

Michael leaned back against the sofa cushions, his eyes tracking the line of my throat. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him it was a game," I said, meeting his gaze firmly. "Because it is, isn't it? I'm grateful for what you've done for me, Michael. You saved my life. But I know I'm just a temporary fixture here until Zach recovers."

Michael remained silent for a long moment. The crackle of the fireplace from the adjacent hall was the only sound echoing between us.

"Nothing in my life is temporary, Aurora," Michael said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly dark register that made my pulse spike. "When I bring something inside these walls, I keep it."

Before I could process the weight of his words, the heavy front doors of the estate slammed open downstairs. Shouted voices echoed up the grand staircase.

Michael was on his feet in a fraction of a second, his hand instinctively reaching behind his back for the sidearm holstered at his spine. "Stay here."

He moved toward the hallway with smooth, predatory speed. Driven by an overwhelming instinct to protect Zach, I rushed out right behind him, keeping my distance as I peered over the mahogany balustrade of the second-floor balcony.

In the foyer below, Lev stood with his weapon drawn, facing a sharp-dressed man in a tailored gray suit accompanied by three heavy enforcers.

"Put the gun away, Lev," the man in the gray suit sneered, adjusting his gold cufflinks. "I'm here to see Michael."

Michael stepped to the top of the stairs, his voice dropping like an anvil onto the foyer below. "You're trespassing, Gianni."

Gianni—the underboss of the rival Syndicate family from Manhattan—looked up, a sickening, greasy smile spreading across his narrow face.

"I'm here on business, Moretti," Gianni said, stepping toward the center of the marble floor. "Word on the street is you took in a little stray from Brooklyn. Lorenzo Vance's daughter."

My breath caught in my throat. Lorenzo Vance. My late father.

"She belongs to no one," Michael said coldly, descending the steps with agonizing, deliberate slowness.

"Her stepmother says otherwise," Gianni countered, pulling a piece of folded parchment from his breast pocket. "Regina signed over Lorenzo's old debt ledger to the Commission yesterday. Your little stray isn't just a broke girl, Michael. She's sitting on fifty million dollars in stolen bearer bonds her father hid before he died."