The gunmen never blinked when they raised their weapons at her. Elena Hart had spent three years patching up the wreckage this city left behind — bullet wounds, broken ribs, men who didn't officially exist.

The Cross Estate sat atop the razor-sharp cliffs of Harbor Heights, surrounded by ten-foot stone walls, iron gates, and high-definition security cameras that monitored every leaf blowing in the wind.

When the convoy of armored SUVs pulled through the gates at four in the morning, Elena looked out the tinted window in quiet awe. The mansion was a colossal gothic structure of black granite and polished glass, looking out over the churning dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean below.

"Home sweet home," Cassian muttered from the front seat as he put the vehicle in park.

Elena helped Damian out of the rear seat. Though his pride demanded he walk on his own, he placed a heavy arm over her shoulders, leaning heavily on her small frame as they navigated the grand marble steps of the foyer.

Inside, the estate was breathtakingly silent. High vaulted ceilings, dark oak paneling, and oil paintings of long-forgotten sea captains lined the corridors.

"Take him to the master bedroom," Elena instructed the guards who rushed to assist. "I need hot water, sterile bandages, fresh IV fluids, and a pot of strong black coffee. Now."

The staff, accustomed to Damian’s stern orders, looked startled by this tiny nurse commanding the household, but Damian gave a slight nod, and they scrambled to obey.

Half an hour later, Damian was propped up against a mountain of black silk pillows in his king-sized bed. His pale torso was freshly bandaged, an IV line dripping saline into his vein, his breathing steady at last.

Elena sat on the edge of the bed, setting down her surgical scissors.

"You need to sleep," she said softly, rubbing the back of her neck where tension had locked her muscles into iron knots.

"I don't sleep well in times of war," Damian replied, watching her every movement.

The low light of the bedside lamp cast soft golden shadows across his sharp jawline and broad shoulders. For the first time, without the adrenaline of gunfire and bleeding arteries, Elena realized just how terrifyingly handsome Damian Cross truly was.

"Why did Victor shoot you?" she asked quietly, resting her hands in her lap. "You run half the city. How did he get close enough to put a bullet in your side?"

Damian’s eyes darkened. "I was betrayed. Someone inside my inner circle gave Victor my private transit route through the docks two nights ago. I managed to kill the three hitmen he sent, but one got off a lucky shot before he died. I knew my estate was compromised, so I couldn't come home. I knew your clinic was the only place in the lower district that didn't answer to the Five Families."

"So you dragged your bleeding body to me," Elena sighed.

"You saved my life, Elena," Damian said, his voice dropping into a tone so quiet and raw it made her breath catch. "Nobody has ever saved me without expecting a check, a territory, or a favor in return."

"I expected you to live," she replied softly. "That was my fee."

Damian reached out, his large, warm hand covering hers on the silk blanket. His thumb gently traced the delicate skin of her wrist, sending a sudden, electric warmth rushing through her veins.

"Victor called an emergency summit at the Blackwood Club for Friday," Damian reminded her. "He will have the dons of the other four families present. Don Falcone, Don Moretti, Don Vance... men who have spent thirty years murdering their way to the top of the food chain. If they suspect our marriage is a sham, they will side with Victor, execute us both, and divide my territory among themselves."