The car was already waiting when Mary stepped outside. No William. Just a chauffeur in a black cap, face blank, posture straight.
“Ma’am,” he said with a nod, holding the door.
Ma’am. She was barely holding herself together, and now she was ma’am.
The ride was silent. Trees blurred past the window, dark trunks and deeper shadows. She sat rigid, hands curled tight in her lap, the dress whispering every time she moved. A deep burgundy — rich as wine, dangerous as blood.
She hated how well it fit.
***
Don Millefiore’s estate was a vision in ivory and shadow, opulent without apology. Columns framed the entry, tall and cold, while candlelight spilled from chandeliers the size of cars.
William waited at the foot of a marble staircase, dressed in a tailored black suit that made him look more myth than man. He didn’t speak right away, just watched her approach with that half-smile—measured, knowing, a touch pleased. When he offered his hand, she hesitated only a second before taking it, the contact burning hotter than it should have.
“You wear danger beautifully,” he said, voice low against her ear as he led her inside.
She tried to ignore the way his touch at the small of her back made her skin tighten. Tried to focus on the music drifting through the air, the clink of glasses, the soft shuffle of bodies dressed in wealth and war.
But when William stepped forward and announced her to the room—“My future wife”—she felt the ground shift under her heels. Every eye turned. Some smiled. Some measured. Some bowed. William played the gentleman well, one hand always on her, his voice smooth and full of praise. He whispered compliments that made her breath hitch, words chosen with surgical precision, each one sliding under her skin like silk-wrapped blades.
After the initial wave of introductions and veiled compliments, William had guided Mary through the glittering hall of Don Millefiore’s estate, pausing just once before a pair of high-backed velvet chairs where the Don himself sat—an older man with silver hair swept back, sharp Italian tailoring hugging a narrow frame, and a gaze that sliced without effort. His wife, Carmela, lounged beside him, statuesque in a floor-length emerald gown, draped in pearls and patience.
“Don Millefiore,” William said with a respectful nod, “allow me to properly introduce my wife.”
The Don’s eyes flicked over Mary with clinical precision, but it was Carmela who stood first. She took Mary’s hands in her own—soft, warm, perfectly manicured—and kissed the air beside her cheeks with practiced grace.
“You are braver than I expected,” she said with a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Or perhaps just young.”
Mary offered a tight smile of her own, knowing better than to flinch.
“She’ll adjust quickly,” William said, his hand brushing lightly against Mary’s lower back.
The Don finally stood, slow but controlled. “Elegance is a language. You already speak it well, signora.” Then he stepped closer, voice dipping low enough for only her to hear. “But this world doesn’t reward grace. It rewards caution.”
Mary met his gaze evenly. “I’ve already learned that.”
He studied her for one long second, then nodded once—approving, or simply amused.
The guests offered gifts—bracelets that sparkled too bright, a vintage necklace with an unspoken history, perfumes that cost more than rent—but the last box stopped everything. She opened the lid and froze.
Inside lay a torn, bloodied shirt, the white stained deep red, the collar tagged with Neil’s name. The fabric was still damp in places, and the sharp scent of iron curled in her nose. Her fingers trembled. Her face gave her away.
William stepped beside her before the gasp had left her throat. His expression turned to stone. He took one look inside the box and then turned to his men with a voice like broken glass. “She goes home. Now.”
He was gone before she could ask anything more.
The drive back was colder this time. She barely heard the engine or felt the road. The estate emerged like a ghost through the trees, familiar and foreign all at once. The moment the guards disappeared from view, she slipped away from her assigned wing, the silence around her heavy with warning. Her feet carried her down the corridor, each step slower than the last, until she stood before the steel doors William had ordered her never to open. Her hand was halfway to the latch when a blood-slicked grip caught her wrist.
She gasped.
William.
He was back—alive, barely—his shirt torn at the shoulder, soaked through with red. A cut trailed down his side, too close to vital to ignore. His jaw was clenched tight, his breathing uneven, but his fury burned clean.
“I told you not to come here.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“And you’re disobedient.”
“Sit,” she snapped, too tired to care if it was a mistake.
To her surprise, he did.
She grabbed a towel, pressed it to his wound, then poured antiseptic with a kind of reckless care. “You’re lucky,” she muttered, dabbing at the torn flesh. “This could’ve been worse.”
“It wasn’t luck,” he said, watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.
She peeled away more of his shirt, trying to avoid the way his muscles moved beneath her fingers. He hissed once when she touched the deeper part of the wound, and their eyes met—briefly, too long. The air thickened. Her breath caught, and she could feel it again—that dangerous pull, the shift between hatred and heat.
Later, when the house had settled into silence and there were no more questions, no more blood, just exhaustion curling around the edges of her mind, she found herself in his bed. Not a request. Not a discussion. A fact. He was shirtless, the low light painting every line of him in shadow. She lay stiff on her side, spine straight, turned away. But comfort was a lie, and the pillow hid more than softness.
Her fingers slid beneath it and stopped cold.
Metal.
She jerked back, inhaling sharply. “Is that a gun?”
William didn’t even open his eyes. “You’re the mafioso’s fiancée now. You should know how to shoot.”
Before she could protest, he reached for her hand again, this time with quiet precision, guiding it to the weapon like it was second nature. His voice stayed low. Patient. “Hold it here. Steady. Not too tight—control is everything. Breathe. In. Out. Again.”
The gun was cold. His skin wasn’t.
She tried to focus on the mechanics, but he was behind her now, arm around hers, chest warm against her back. His breath touched her neck, and then—without warning—his lips did too. Slow. Certain. Like he knew exactly what effect he was having.
She turned toward him, heart thudding hard.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did she.
Their mouths met—hot, unhurried, the kind of kiss that demanded surrender. His hands roamed, pulling her closer, and her body answered without asking permission. Her hand pressed against his chest, his against the curve of her spine, and she didn’t know where she ended and he began.
Until—
CRACK.
Glass exploded beside them. A bullet tore through the window.
Mary screamed. He rolled instantly, covering her body with his, gun still in hand. Breath steady.
And eyes that promised: someone just made a mistake they won’t live to regret.