A six-year-old boy proposed to me while I was hiding from the men my stepmother had sent to collect me like property. I laughed, sealed our ridiculous engagement with a pinky promise, and said yes, only for the storage-room door to burst open seconds later and reveal that my new “fiancé” was the son of Michael Moretti, the most feared mafia boss on the East Coast.

The confrontation with Donato Rossi wasn't an isolated incident; it was the spark that ignited a powder keg across the New York underworld.

Over the next three days, the Moretti estate transitioned from a peaceful sanctuary into an armed fortress. Salvatore and his security team doubled patrols along the perimeter walls. Armored vehicles sat idling in the underground garage, and the sharp, urgent chatter of encrypted radios echoed softly from the security annex near the front gates.

Michael was gone for hours at a time, attending clandestine meetings in Manhattan, negotiating with syndicate elders, and systematically neutralizing any opposition daring to question his decision to shelter me.

Yet, no matter how late he returned—whether it was midnight or three in the morning—Michael always came up to the second-floor hallway. He would quietly push open Zach’s door to check on his son, and then he would stand in the doorway of the East Wing suite, finding me reading by the bedside lamp or staring out at the moonlit gardens.

We rarely spoke during those late-night visits. Just a quiet nod, a murmured reassurance, and the heavy, electric awareness of a bond that neither of us had planned for, yet neither of us could deny.

By Saturday evening, the storm finally broke.

I was sitting in the grand library on the main floor, helping Zach build an impossibly tall Lego skyscraper, when the heavy oak front doors flew open with a deafening crash.

Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed across the marble foyer, followed by Salvatore’s deep voice shouting urgent orders.

"Lock down the perimeter! Secure all lower-level entry points!"

My heart leapt into my throat. Zach dropped his Lego brick, his wide brown eyes locking onto mine with sudden panic. "Aurora? What's happening?"

"Stay here," I whispered, my voice trembling as I stood up from the floor. "Don't move from this room, Zach. Promise me."

"Promise," the little boy whispered, scrambling behind the heavy velvet drapes of the library window.

I walked out into the grand hallway just as Michael stepped through the double doors.

My breath caught. Michael’s dark suit was ruined—his jacket was discarded, his crisp white shirt stained with dark smudges of soot and blood near the shoulder. A shallow, jagged cut ran along his jawline, dripping a single drop of crimson onto his collar. Behind him, Salvatore and three other bodyguards were half-carrying a wounded man toward the private medical annex.

Michael stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing in the foyer.

His slate-gray eyes flashed with sudden, blinding panic. "Aurora—what are you doing out here? I told you to stay in the East Wing!"

"I heard the noise," I rushed forward, ignoring my own fear as I reached him, my hands hovering uncertainly over his blood-stained shirt. "Michael, you're bleeding! Are you okay? What happened?"

Michael stared down at me, his chest heaving with adrenaline. For a fraction of a second, the impenetrable armor of the mafia boss completely shattered, revealing raw, primal terror—not for himself, but for me.

"Rossi’s men," Michael growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. "They tried to hit the downtown transport. They thought I’d be vulnerable. They were wrong."

"Is it over?" I whispered, my fingers gently brushing against his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the ruined fabric.

"It's over," Michael said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling resonance as he finally caught my hands in his. His grip was firm, warm, and utterly grounding. "Rossi made his move, and he lost. The commission has called an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night, this war will be permanently finished."

"And you?" I asked softly, searching his dark, intense eyes. "Are you going to be safe?"

A slow, fierce smile touched Michael’s lips, reaching his eyes for the very first time. He raised one hand, his calloused fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw—the exact opposite of the bruised wrist Regina had left behind.

"With you waiting for me at home?" Michael murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I am invincible."

Behind us, a small head poked out from the library doorway. Zach blinked up at us, adjusting his superhero pajamas.

"Did the bad guys lose?" Zach asked loudly.