Chapter 3

Vittoria

From that night on, the way Roman looked at me changed.

The calculating boss was gone. He was looking at me like a man looks at a woman. I noticed, of course, but I played it perfectly. I kept things light, pretending not to see the heat in his eyes.

He started taking me out for private lunches and dinners. Whenever he flew out of state for syndicate business, he always came back with gifts for me.

Then came a routine check at one of his underground casinos.

Some idiot from a lower-level crew had a little too much to drink. Thinking he was untouchable, he stumbled over and tried to put his hands on my waist.

Roman snapped.

He went completely feral. He dragged the guy by his collar and beat him to a bloody pulp right on the floor.

By the time his men pulled him off, Roman's knuckles were busted open.

I rode back with him in the back of his SUV. As the family doctor stitched his hands up, I wrapped my arms around his torso and held him tight.

I grabbed his uninjured hand, letting my voice shake just enough to sound fragile.

"Roman... please tell me you're okay. God, this is all my fault."

He froze for a second, then squeezed my hand back. He dropped his chin to my shoulder and let out a heavy breath.

"I'm fine, Vittoria," he muttered against my skin. "Don't sweat it."

With my ear pressed against his chest, I could hear the steady, heavy thump-thump of his heart.

While Roman and I were getting closer, Bianca was losing her mind in Paris.

Sick of waiting for a grand rescue that never came, she finally broke. She had a mutual friend "accidentally" leak her exact location to Roman. She fully expected him to drop everything, gas up his private jet, and fly across the Atlantic to beg her to come back.

He didn't.

Roman stared at the address on his phone screen for a long, quiet second. Then, he locked the device and went back to work.

Bianca threw a fit. It only got worse when she called Aldo and Silvana. Our parents dropped the bomb: Roman put a ring on my finger the night she ran away.

Delusional as always, Bianca refused to believe it. She told herself he was just playing along with the elders to teach her a lesson.

Spoiled and reckless, she called the Falcone estate directly, ready to scream at whoever picked up.

"You old dinosaurs!" she yelled. "You really think an arranged marriage is gonna work? Roman is mine! He'd rather die than marry Vittoria!"

Unfortunately for Bianca, Donna Olimpia was the one holding the phone.

The Donna was nearly ninety, and her health was already fragile. Bianca's insane, disrespectful rant triggered a massive heart attack.

She was rushed straight to the ICU. The doctors issued a critical condition notice within the hour.

Lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen monitors, the Donna tightly gripped Roman's hand. He was the son of her youngest boy—her absolute favorite.

"Roman," she wheezed. "Marry Vittoria. Let me see it before I die."

That night, Roman stood on the hospital balcony. He chain-smoked through half a pack, staring blankly out at the city lights.

He dialed a number a few times, but it never connected.

Bianca was likely playing hard to get, completely unaware she was missing her last chance to fix things.

By dawn, the ashtray was full, and his last shred of patience was dead.

He showed up at my door just as the sun came up.

His eyes were bloodshot. The smell of tobacco and cold morning air clung to his coat. He looked straight at me, his gaze dark and resolute.

"Vittoria," he said, his voice rough. "Let's get married."