The Maid Took Three Bullets Protecting His Son—Then the Mafia Boss Asked Her to Become His Wife

The master bedroom in the west wing was massive, dominated by a king-sized four-poster bed made of dark mahogany, a roaring stone fireplace, and panoramic bulletproof windows overlooking the snow-covered forest.

Until tonight, Sarah had stayed in her own suite. But after the gala, the dynamic had shifted completely.

Sarah sat on the edge of the mattress in a white silk nightgown. Gabriel stood across the room by the mahogany desk, pouring two fingers of bourbon. He had removed his jacket and tie, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal the heavy line of his collarbones and the dark, intricate ink covering his chest.

"You need to change the dressing on your shoulder," he said, turning around with the glass in his hand.

"I can do it myself," she replied quietly.

"You can't reach the exit wound on your shoulder blade." Gabriel set his glass down and walked to the adjoining bathroom, returning with a medical kit.

He didn't ask for permission. He sat down beside her on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. Gently, with surprising dexterity for hands that had broken bones and pulled triggers, he pulled the silk strap of her gown down, exposing her left shoulder.

Sarah shivered at the cool air, and then again as Gabriel’s rough fingertips grazed her skin.

He peeled away the sterile gauze. The scars were hideous—puckered, angry red tissue where the surgeons had reconstructed the muscle and tissue. Sarah turned her head away, self-conscious.

"Don't," Gabriel ordered softly, his fingers cupping her jaw to turn her face back toward him. "Never turn away from your scars."

"They're ugly," she whispered.

"They're armor," he countered, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of the wound near her collarbone. His touch sent electric shivers down her spine, pooling heat in her stomach. "Every time I look at this, I remember that my son is alive because of you. I remember that the only person in this world who never lied to me, who never wanted something from me, is sitting in front of me."

His slate eyes were dark, dilated, burning into hers.

"Why didn't you run?" Gabriel asked, his voice a low rumble. "That day in the sunroom. When the glass broke. You could have dove behind the reinforced stone pillar. You could have saved yourself. Leo wasn't your child."

Sarah looked down at his chest, watching the slow rise and fall of his breathing. "I was an orphan, Gabriel. I spent my whole life being the child no one picked up. The one nobody protected. When I saw Leo standing there, looking at that broken easel... I didn't see the son of a mafia boss. I just saw a boy who needed someone to stand in front of him."

Gabriel went completely still.

A heavy, aching silence fell over the room. Slowly, Gabriel leaned forward. He didn't kiss her mouth. He pressed his warm, soft lips directly against the puckered scar on her shoulder.

Sarah gasped, her hands instinctively clutching his forearms. His muscles were rock-hard under her palms. He moved his lips slowly up the column of her neck, his breath hot against her skin, until he hovered right at the corner of her jaw.

"You're not invisible anymore, Sarah," he breathed against her lips. "I see you. I see everything."

Before the kiss could deepen into something consuming, the house alarm wailed.

A piercing, mechanical shriek shattered the silence. Red emergency strobes flashed through the hallways.

Instantly, Gabriel was on his feet. The lover vanished; the warlord returned. He reached into the nightstand, pulling out a tactical shotgun and a customized semi-automatic pistol.

"Stay here," he barked.

"Gabriel, what is it?"

"Breach at the east gate," he said, racking the slide of the pistol and handing it to her grip. "Safety is off. If anyone opens that door who isn't me or Dante, you empty the magazine into their chest. Understand?"

"Where's Leo?" panic surged through Sarah, cold and violent.

"Dante is moving him to the panic room right now." Gabriel stepped toward the door, then paused, looking back at her. His eyes were fierce. "Hold the line, Sarah."

"Come back to me," she said, her fingers gripping the cold steel of the gun.

A grim smile touched his face. "Always."

He disappeared into the smoke-filled corridor. Gunfire erupted from the lower levels—heavy, chaotic, and closer than it had ever been before.

Sarah didn't stay in the bed. Pain flared in her shoulder, but she ignored it, rack-sliding her bare feet onto the cold floor. She moved to the doorway, gun raised, listening to the war descending on the house.

Someone had bypassed the outer perimeter entirely. This wasn't an outside hit squad smashing through the fence.