Fifty thousand dollars for three months of work sounded like salvation until I learned the job involved bathing, dressing, and rehabilitating a wheelchair-bound mob boss whose last three nurses had quit. I took it because losing my doctoral program terrified me more than any criminal ever could—but the first time I met Massimo Pascale, I realized the money was probably the least dangerous part of the arrangement.

“You are a stubborn, irrational woman,” Massimo growled, pacing the length of the small office. His gait was still heavily favored on his right side, a limp that betrayed the immense pain he was suppressing, but the raw power radiating from him was undeniable.

“And you are an arrogant, controlling mob boss,” I countered, standing my ground despite the terrifying energy crackling in the room. “I am not getting on a plane to Switzerland, Massimo. I am your physical therapist. I signed a three-month contract.”

He stopped, closing the distance between us in two rapid strides. His hands clamped down on my shoulders, his grip tight enough to bruise but desperate enough to make my breath catch.

“This isn’t a clinic in Boston, Tessa!” he shouted, the mask of the cold, calculated mafia king finally slipping. “Tomorrow night, men are going to die. Vincenzo will stop at nothing. If he sees you, he will use you to break me. Do you understand that? You are a vulnerability I cannot afford!”

“A vulnerability?” I pushed against his chest, refusing to let him intimidate me. “I’m the reason you’re standing! I’m the reason you can even fight back! I stitched your wounds, I hid you, and I stayed when I could have run. I am not a weakness, Massimo. I am the only person in your life you can actually trust!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Massimo’s chest heaved against my palms. He looked down at me, the fury in his eyes slowly melting into something far more dangerous. Something raw, consuming, and deeply possessive.

Before I could register the shift, his mouth crashed down on mine.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was three weeks of suffocating tension, fear, and unspoken desires igniting all at once. My gasp was swallowed by his lips. His hands moved from my shoulders, one tangling fiercely in my hair, the other wrapping around my waist, pulling my body flush against his hard, muscular frame.

I didn't push him away. I kissed him back with equal desperation, my hands sliding up his broad back, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if he were an anchor in a storm. The world outside the safehouse—the guns, the impending war, Vincenzo—vanished entirely. There was only the taste of him, dark and intoxicating, and the frantic racing of my heart.

When he finally pulled away, we were both breathless. He rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged.

“If you stay,” he whispered, his voice vibrating against my skin, “I will never let you go, Tessa. You understand? If you stay for this war, you stay for good.”

I swallowed hard, looking up into the eyes of the most feared man in the city. The doctoral student in me screamed that this was madness, but the woman standing in his arms knew there was no going back.

“Then we better win,” I whispered.

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of tactical planning and adrenaline. By midnight the following evening, I was sitting in the back of a heavily armored SUV, surrounded by Massimo’s top men. Lorenzo was driving, his face illuminated by the green glow of the dashboard. Massimo sat beside me, dressed in a sharp black suit, checking the magazine of his customized Glock. He looked like an angel of death.

We were parked outside the abandoned shipyards in South Boston. The rain was torrential, washing the city in a cold, gray wash. Inside Warehouse 4, Vincenzo Pascale was holding court with the other syndicate families, preparing to claim Massimo’s empire.

“You stay in the car,” Massimo ordered, turning to me. He didn’t wait for an argument. “Lorenzo, if things go sideways, you drive her out of here. You don’t wait for me.”

“Capo,” Lorenzo nodded grimly.

Massimo leaned over, pressing a hard, brief kiss to my lips. “Lock the doors.”

He stepped out into the rain, his men flanking him like shadows. I watched through the tinted glass as they moved silently toward the massive steel doors of the warehouse. The limp in Massimo’s step was gone; he was running purely on adrenaline and rage.

Minutes ticked by in agonizing silence. The rain hammered against the roof of the SUV. I stared at the warehouse, my nails biting into my palms.

Then, the gunfire started.

It wasn’t like the movies. It was chaotic, deafening, and terrifying. The staccato crack of automatic weapons echoed through the empty shipyard, flashing brilliant bursts of yellow light through the frosted windows of the warehouse.

“God,” I choked out, clutching the door handle.

“Stay down, Miss,” Lorenzo barked, drawing his own weapon and scanning the perimeter.

Suddenly, the side door of the warehouse blew open. Two men stumbled out into the rain, grappling with each other. One of them fell, clutching his chest. The other stood, raising his gun.

It was Massimo. But before he could fire, a third figure emerged from the shadows—a woman holding a high-powered rifle, aiming directly at Massimo’s back.