The Mafia Boss Thought Taking His Shy Secretary to the Gala Would Be Amusing—Until He Saw How Other Men Looked at Her

The private elevator of the Castellani Building ascended through sixty-four floors of silence, the quiet broken only by the faint hum of the hydraulic cables and the ragged sound of Khloe’s breathing.

She stood pressed against the mirrored back wall of the cab, clutching her small clutch against her stomach, her chest heaving beneath the midnight-blue silk. The massive diamond on her finger felt heavier than an anvil, dragging her hand down toward the floor.

Roman stood with his back to her, watching the floor indicator climb: 58... 59... 60...

His tuxedo jacket was open, his tie untied and hanging loose around his collar. He looked like an emperor returning from a successful military campaign—dominant, lethal, and entirely untamed.

The elevator chimed softly. Floor 64.

The bronze doors parted, opening directly into the sprawling, two-story penthouse that sat above his corporate offices. The space was an architectural masterpiece of black granite, floor-to-ceiling glass, and minimalist leather furniture, illuminated only by the panoramic sweep of the Manhattan skyline glittering like crushed diamonds beneath a cloudless night sky.

Khloe stepped out onto the polished slate floor, her heels clicking nervously. She stopped in the center of the vast living room, turning around to face him as the elevator doors sealed shut behind them.

"You kissed me," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury, confusion, and a terrifying, subterranean heat she couldn't suppress.

Roman walked over to the dry bar, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled his sleeves up twice over his forearms. He poured two fingers of amber scotch into a lowball glass and took a slow sip before turning to look at her.

"I had to convince the council, Khloe," he replied, his tone infuriatingly calm.

"You kissed me like you were going to consume me, Roman!" she shouted, taking two angry steps toward him, completely forgetting that he was a man who had murdered people with his bare hands. "You announced a wedding! You put a six-carat diamond on my hand! You told Salvatore Valente that I own half of your shipping lines!"

Roman set the glass down on the marble counter with a sharp, concussive click.

He didn't answer with words. He walked across the slate floor, closing the distance between them with that smooth, terrifying predatory grace, stopping three inches from where she stood.

"Do you want me to take the ring back, Khloe?" he asked softly, his deep voice scraping along her raw nerves.

Khloe swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry as dust. "I... I can't marry you. I'm your assistant. My mother is on dialysis. I live in a walk-up with a broken radiator. I don't belong in your world!"

Roman reached out, his long fingers gently catching the heavy diamond choker around her throat, his knuckles grazing the sensitive hollow beneath her ear.

"Your mother’s dialysis bills were paid in full through a private trust fund at Johns Hopkins two hours ago," Roman murmured, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her jawline. "Her name was moved to the top of the donor kidney recipient list at Mount Sinai forty minutes before we reached the gala."

Khloe’s breath stopped entirely. Her eyes widened, tears of absolute shock welling up in her lashes. "What... what did you do?"

"I protect what belongs to me, Khloe," Roman whispered, his gray eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, unshakeable devotion that made her knees buckle. "You spent two years hiding behind beige sweaters and scuffed shoes because you thought the world would destroy you if anyone saw how beautiful you are. You thought you were protecting yourself."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of her temple, his voice dropping into a sacred, dangerous register:

"You don't have to hide anymore, little mouse. The entire city saw you tonight. They know you're mine. And if Dante Valente or any other bastard in this town looks at you with anything less than absolute terror and reverence... I will burn their empires to ash."

Khloe looked up into his scarred, handsome face.

She looked at the man who had terrified her for seven hundred days, the man who had brought her to a gala as a cruel joke, only to tear down an entire syndicate council the second another man reached for her hand.

"Why me, Roman?" she choked out, a single tear slipping from her lash, tracing a warm path down her cheek. "You could have any woman in the world. Supermodels, heiresses, daughters of senators. Why the girl who poured your coffee?"

Roman smiled—a slow, magnificent, and heartbreakingly vulnerable curve of his lips that she had never seen before in her life.

He reached down, took her left hand in his, and pressed his lips against the cold diamond on her finger.