His Engagement Broke Her Heart, but the Mafia Boss Refused to Let Her Walk Away

The acrid smell of burnt plastic and extinguished chemical accelerant hung heavy in the damp Chicago air long after the last of Vance’s men had been neutralized or fled into the night.

Viktor stood guard by the entrance, smoking a cigarette while watching the horizon for any sign of police sirens—though in this part of the city, the police only arrived when Gabriel Costa invited them.

Inside the warehouse, the damage was localized. A single row of shipping crates was charred black, water dripping in a steady, rhythmic torrent from the overhead sprinklers, forming large puddles on the concrete floor.

Gabriel stood near the center of the destruction, his white dress shirt stained with soot and water, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked less like a corporate titan and more like a warlord fresh from the trenches.

Clara walked up behind him, wiping a smudge of black ash from her cheek with the back of her hand.

“Vance didn’t act alone,” she said quietly, her voice cutting through the dripping sound of the water. “He couldn’t have known the exact arrival time of this specific shipment unless someone inside our inner circle leaked the manifest.”

Gabriel turned slowly. His dark eyes swept over her, taking in the wet strands of hair clinging to her neck, the fierce intelligence burning in her eyes. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing the smudge of soot from her cheek. The gesture was tender—so violently at odds with the carnage around them that it made Clara’s breath hitch.

“I know,” Gabriel said softly.

“Who?”

“Only three people had access to the full manifest: me, Viktor, and my uncle Marco.”

Clara’s eyes widened. Marco Costa was Gabriel’s blood—an old-school mobster who had helped raise Gabriel after his parents died. He was also the man who had nearly started a war with the Marinos three years ago over a disputed strip of waterfront property.

“Marco wouldn't work with the Marinos,” Clara argued, though even as she said it, she remembered the seating chart she had corrected the day before—the uncle refusing to sit near a man he had tried to kill. “Would he?”

“Marco hates the Marinos more than anyone,” Gabriel said, his jaw tightening. “Which means he didn’t do it to help them. He did it to sabotage the wedding.”

Clara stared at him, the pieces clicking together with terrifying speed. “He wants the war. If the wedding fails, the alliance collapses, blood flows, and he takes over the council while you’re distracted fighting on two fronts.”

“Smart girl,” Gabriel murmured, stepping closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. “That’s why I can’t let you go, Clara. You see the board five moves ahead of everyone else.”

“I am not a chess piece, Gabriel,” she snapped, though she didn’t step back. “I am a human being who watched the man she loves marry another woman yesterday. Don't flatter me with your tactical assessments.”

Gabriel went very still. The dark intensity in his eyes flared into something raw and dangerous.

“You think I wanted that wedding?” he snarled, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her flush against his wet, soot-stained chest. “You think standing at that altar while every lowlife in this city watched me sign away my freedom felt like a victory? Every word I said to Isabella tasted like ash in my mouth. I kept looking at the door, hoping—praying—you would walk down the center aisle with a shotgun and blow my head off.”

Clara let out a bitter, watery laugh. “And ruin the seating chart? Please. I spent six hours on that table arrangement.”

A ghost of a smile touched the corner of Gabriel’s mouth before it vanished, replaced by an expression of fierce, absolute resolve. He slid one hand up the back of her neck, tangling his fingers in her dark hair, tilting her face up.

“Leave with me,” he whispered against her lips.

“What?”

“To hell with the council. To hell with the Marinos. To hell with the empire, the docks, the real estate, and the wedding.” Gabriel’s voice was fierce, desperate, stripped of all its corporate armor. “Let’s get in a car right now, drive to the coast, and burn it all down.”

Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. It was the fantasy she had dreamed of for years—Gabriel, stripped of his crown, choosing her over the throne.

Then she saw the shadow of a car’s headlights sweeping across the far wall of the warehouse.

Reality crashed back in.

Gabriel’s satellite phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He didn’t break eye contact with her as he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. His expression instantly hardened back into the mask of the crime boss.

“Talk,” Gabriel commanded into the phone.

A voice squawked on the other end—fast, panicked. It was Viktor from the front entrance.

“Boss, you need to see this. A car just pulled up. It’s a black Mercedes. Plates are registered to the Marino estate.”

Gabriel’s eyes locked onto Clara’s. “Who’s in it?”