She Never Planned to Marry for Money—Until Her Mother Got Sick and the Mafia Boss Made His Choice

The east wing clinic inside the Ferraro mansion looked like a military trauma unit.

Two private surgeons whom Santino kept on permanent retainer had successfully extracted two nine-millimeter slugs from Leo Vance’s shoulder. Leo was sedated, resting in a sterilized recovery room on the ground floor.

In the master suite, Caitlyn sat on the edge of the bed. The scarlet gown lay discarded on the floor, replaced by a simple gray cashmere sweater and black trousers. Her hands were still trembling.

The bathroom door opened, and Santino walked out.

He had washed the blood from his hands and face, but his knuckles were split and swollen, purple bruising already spreading across the bone. He wore only a black t-shirt and dark trousers.

He held a first-aid kit in his right hand.

Without saying a word, he pulled a chair in front of her, sat down, and took her right hand in his. Her wrist was bruised where Matteo had twisted it.

He unscrewed a jar of soothing ointment and began gently, methodically rubbing it into the purple discoloration on her skin. His touch was impossibly light, like butterfly wings brushing over bruised glass.

“You shot him,” Santino said quietly, not looking up from her wrist.

“He was going to kill you,” Caitlyn whispered.

“You should have run inside,” he said, his voice tightening. “You should have hidden behind the security doors. If that second shooter had turned his gun two inches to the left, you would be dead on that terrace.”

“And you would be dead in the rose bushes!” she snapped, pulling her hand away.

Santino froze. He looked up, his gray eyes piercing and intense.

“My life is expendable, Caitlyn,” he said with cold certainty. “I am the head of a syndicate. I have known since I was twelve years old that I would die with lead in my gut or a knife in my ribs. That is the price of the Ferraro seat.”

“Don’t say that!” Tears welled in her eyes, hot and angry. “Don’t you dare say that!”

“Why do you care?” Santino’s voice rose, cracking through the quiet room like a whip. He stood up, towering over her. “This was supposed to be a business deal! You stole from me, I bought your mother’s blood, you wear my ring! Why did you jump between me and a bullet?”

Caitlyn stood up to face him, her chest heaving, the three months of fear, adrenaline, and unspoken yearning finally breaking through the levee.

“Because I love you, you idiot!” she screamed into his face.

The room went dead silent.

The wind outside howled against the glass, but inside, the air seemed to vanish completely.

Caitlyn’s hands shook. She pressed her fingers against her mouth, horrified by what had just escaped her lips. She stepped back, her knees hitting the edge of the mattress.

Santino stared at her. His expression was completely blank, as if a lightning bolt had struck the room and vaporized his thoughts.

“What did you say?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.

“Nothing,” Caitlyn whispered, turning her head away, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. “Forget it. It’s the adrenaline. I’m tired, Santino. I just... I want to check on my mother.”

She moved to walk past him, toward the adjoining door.

Santino caught her.

His hand shot out, wrapping around her upper arm, spinning her around and slamming her back against the solid wood of the wardrobe. But there was no cruelty in it. His body followed hers, pinning her against the wood, his hands framing her face, his thumbs wiping the tears from her cheekbones.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice thick, rough, almost pleading.

“Santino, please—”

“Say it.”

“I love you,” she sobbed, looking straight into his tormented, beautiful gray eyes. “I know what you are. I know what you do. I know this was supposed to be a fake marriage. But every time you look at me, every time you protect me, every time you make sure my mother is breathing... I fall deeper into this nightmare. And I can’t stop it.”

Santino groaned—a deep, shattered sound from the bottom of his soul.

He crashed his mouth against hers.

It was an explosion of raw, untamed passion that had been building for months in the shadows of the mansion. He kissed her with an all-consuming desperation, his hands tangling into her dark hair, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his chest. Caitlyn wrapped her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to him, tasting the salt of her tears and the wild, metallic heat of his devotion.

He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed, tumbling together onto the heavy sheets. His hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of her ribs, learning the soft skin of her waist, stripping away the cashmere sweater until there was nothing between them but skin, heat, and the pounding rhythm of their hearts.

When he entered her, he paused, his eyes locked onto hers in the amber gloom of the bedside lamp.

“You are mine, Caitlyn,” Santino whispered, his voice shaking with fierce, unyielding reverie. “Not for a year. Not for a contract. For as long as my heart beats. Forever.”