Fifty thousand dollars for three months of work sounded like salvation until I learned the job involved bathing, dressing, and rehabilitating a wheelchair-bound mob boss whose last three nurses had quit. I took it because losing my doctoral program terrified me more than any criminal ever could—but the first time I met Massimo Pascale, I realized the money was probably the least dangerous part of the arrangement.

The annual Syndicate Commission Gala was held at the Grand Plaza Hotel in downtown Boston—a neutral territory where all five major organized crime families met once a year to negotiate shipping routes, territory disputes, and peace treaties.

Massimo was expected to forfeit his seat on the board tonight. The rumor circulating through the underworld was that he was permanently crippled, a helpless invalid residing in his estate.

He proved them wrong.

When the massive double doors of the ballroom swung open, the murmurs of three hundred high-society criminals and dirty politicians died instantly.

Massimo sat in a sleek, custom-designed titanium wheelchair, wearing a bespoke black Italian tuxedo that made him look like a dark king. His hair was slicked back, his posture towering even while seated.

And standing directly beside him, wearing a emerald green silk gown that hugged every curve, was me. My hand rested securely on his broad shoulder, my chin held high.

"They're staring," I whispered under my breath, smiling for the cameras.

"Let them stare," Massimo replied coolly out of the side of his mouth. "Half the men in this room are wondering how a monster like me secured the most beautiful woman in the state."

A tall, greasy-haired man in a white suit stepped forward from the crowd, holding a crystal glass of scotch.

Dominic Rossi.

"Massimo!" Rossi sneered, taking a sip of his drink. "I was worried you wouldn't make it. We heard you were... resting comfortably at home."

"I don't rest, Dominic," Massimo said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "And I certainly don't leave my city in the hands of scavengers."

Rossi’s eyes turned cold. He looked over at me, his gaze lingering disrespectfully over my dress. "And who is this gorgeous little thing? Is she your new nurse, Massimo? Does she change your diapers, too?"

Laughter rippled through Rossi’s bodyguards.

Before Massimo could react, I took a calm step forward, putting myself slightly between Rossi and Massimo’s chair.

"My name is Dr. Tessa Fitzgerald," I said, my voice rich, confident, and echoing clearly over the immediate silence. "I hold a doctorate in neurological physical therapy. And based on your slurred speech, visible tremor in your right hand, and mild facial asymmetry, Mr. Rossi, I’d suggest you cut back on the cheap scotch before your oncoming stroke finishes the job your doctor clearly missed."

The ballroom went dead silent.

A few underbosses in the back hid quiet chuckles. Rossi’s face turned an ugly, bright shade of purple.

"You arrogant little bitch—" Rossi spat, taking an aggressive step toward me.

In a fraction of a second, Massimo’s hand moved. He grabbed Rossi’s wrist with a grip so violent that the crystal scotch glass shattered in Rossi’s hand, dropping shards onto the carpet. Massimo squeezed until Rossi dropped to his knees, gasping in pain.

Massimo leaned forward in his chair, his eyes black with pure, unadulterated fury.

"If you ever address my future wife again, Dominic," Massimo whispered, his voice carrying the chill of a grave, "I won't just take your territory. I will personally feed you to the fish in Boston Harbor. Now get out of my sight."

Massimo released his wrist. Rossi scrambled backward, holding his bleeding hand, humiliated in front of every boss in the city.

As Rossi retreated, Massimo looked up at me, a proud, breathtaking smile gracing his features. He pulled my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles warmly.