My three-year online boyfriend was the heir to one of New York’s most feared Mafia families, and the money he sent me was the only reason I survived cancer. But Ethan Blackwood never knew my real face, because every time he asked for a photo, I sent him pictures of my beautiful next-door neighbor instead. Three years later, after I vanished without saying goodbye, a black Ferrari stopped outside my apartment, and Ethan stepped out with her on his arm.

Six months later, the spring sun was shining brightly over the rolling green lawns of an estate upstate, far away from the cramped, dreary concrete of Queens and the sterile, clinical walls of the hospital.

The wedding was small, intimate, and profoundly peaceful. There were no underworld bosses, no flashing paparazzi cameras, and no grand, intimidating mafia displays—just a handful of trusted friends, the warm afternoon breeze, and Mochi strutting down the aisle with a tiny white bow tied around her fluffy neck.

Claire stood before the altar wearing a flowing, ivory lace dress that hugged her healthy, curves, her long, chestnut hair cascading in thick, soft waves down her back.

As she recited her vows, looking into Ethan’s dark, adoring eyes, she realized how miraculous life truly was. She had walked through the valley of the shadow of death, fought a war against cancer with a bowl of rice porridge and an anonymous messaging app, and survived against every impossible odd.

And Ethan—the feared heir to the Blackwood family—had proven that beneath the ruthless exterior of New York’s underworld lay a man capable of the fiercest, most unconditional loyalty imaginable.

When the minister finally pronounced them husband and wife, Ethan pulled her close, kissing her with a fierce, tender passion that made the small crowd applaud.

As they walked back down the aisle together amidst a shower of white rose petals, Claire leaned her head against his broad shoulder, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart against hers.

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My daughter dumped her wedding cake over my head and called me a burden—...

$I stepped down from a classified military transport and headed directly to the ICU, where my wife was lying with twenty-seven broken bones and a fractured skull. Outside her hospital room, her mother and six sisters stood smiling as though they were waiting for lunch to arrive. The detective assigned to her case leaned in and whispered, "Captain, this family practically controls the entire county." I stared through the glass at my wife's bruised and swollen face before answering, "Good. Because my authority extends far beyond this county."$