The Mafia Boss Brought a Socialite to Her Rescue Shop, but One Cruel Insult Made Him Reveal Who He Had Been Chasing All Along

The Mercer estate was less a home and more a fortress disguised as an architectural masterpiece. High stone walls topped with wrought-iron spikes surrounded three acres of manicured lawns that sloped directly down to a private granite seawall. Inside, the ceilings were twenty feet high, the floors were dark, polished mahogany, and the walls were lined with heavy oil paintings of men in nineteenth-century naval coats—men who looked remarkably like Adrian.

Goliath trotted across the wide foyer, his claws clicking rhythmically against the wood, before collapsing onto a massive Persian rug by the stone fireplace.

"Drink?" Adrian asked, shrugging off his heavy wool coat and tossing it over the back of a leather armchair. Beneath it, he wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, corded muscle and a long, jagged scar running across his left wrist.

"Water is fine," Elena said, standing near the edge of the living room, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She felt absurdly out of place among the museum-quality art and towering bookshelves. "Mr. Mercer—Adrian—I can't stay long. The shop opens at eight tomorrow, and—"

"The shop will open when you get there," Adrian interrupted, walking over to a heavy crystal decanter on a sideboard. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy glass, ignoring the water offer entirely. "And stop calling me Mr. Mercer. It makes me feel like my grandfather."

"Your grandfather probably didn't intimidate Boston's elite before breakfast," Elena pointed out, though a small smile touched the corners of her mouth.

Adrian turned around, holding the glass in one hand, his amber eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly very small. He walked toward her, slow and measured, until he was standing just a foot away.

"My grandfather built this city on blood and concrete," Adrian said quietly, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate in Elena’s chest. "He didn't care who he crushed along the way. Neither did my father. By the time the organization fell into my hands, there was nothing left of it except a ledger full of debts and a target on my back."

"Is that why you have bodyguards?" Elena asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Bodyguards are for men who are afraid of dying," Adrian said. "I have them because people like Victoria Hale think they can buy their way into my life by destroying everyone else's."

He reached out. This time, he didn't grab her arm. His large, warm fingers brushed a stray lock of dark hair away from her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. His thumb lingered for a fraction of a second against her skin, rough with calluses, sending a jolt of electricity straight down her spine.

"Why me, Adrian?" Elena asked, her breath catching in her throat. She looked up into his eyes, searching for the game, the trick, the angle. "There are a hundred women in this city who would give anything to be standing where I am right now. Women with names, money, dresses that don't smell like dog shampoo."

"Do you think I care about a dress?" Adrian asked, his voice rough, almost angry. He dropped his hand, taking a step back as if the proximity was burning him. "Do you think I spent fourteen mornings watching you clean cages and feed strays because I was looking for a society debutante to sit across from me at charity galas?"

"I don't know what you were looking for," Elena said honestly.

"I was looking for someone who wasn't afraid of the dark," Adrian said, walking over to the tall glass windows that looked out over the churning Atlantic. The rain was beating harder against the panes now, streaking the dark water outside. "For two years, everyone who looked at me—everyone who looked at Goliath—saw a liability. They saw a monster on a leash. You didn't. You saw a dog who was scared, and you sat down on the floor."

He turned back to face her, his expression hard, resolute, and terrifyingly sincere.

"You didn't ask who I was, Elena. You didn't care about the money or the name. You just cared about what was broken." He took a step toward her. "And for the first time in my life, I wanted someone to look at *me* the same way."

Before Elena could answer—before her brain could process the magnitude of what he was saying—the heavy oak front door of the estate rattled violently.

A sharp, frantic series of knocks echoed through the cavernous foyer, followed by the muffled, panicked voice of the scarred bodyguard from the doorway.