"The mafia boss hadn’t let a woman near his bed in five years—until his exhausted maid fell asleep beside him with a dangerous fever.

The burn on Chloe’s arm was minor, thanks to the quick application of medical cream, but the emotional storm left in the wake of the incident raged throughout the entire city.

News spread through Chicago’s underworld like wildfire: Victor Russo had drawn a gun on Leo Donati’s daughter for a housemaid.

The Donati crime family felt deeply humiliated, and humiliation in their world demanded blood.

For her own safety, Victor ordered Chloe to move out of the staff quarters and into a room on the third floor of the main mansion—right next to his private suite.

"This is ridiculous," Chloe protested late that evening, standing in the middle of her new, luxurious bedroom. The room featured a king-sized canopy bed, silk drapes, a private fireplace, and a balcony overlooking the snowy gardens. "I am a maid, Victor! I can't live in a room like this!"

Victor sat in an armchair near her fireplace, swirling a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He had stripped off his suit jacket, wearing only his black vest and white shirt.

"You are no longer a maid, Chloe," Victor said calmly.

"Then what am I?" she demanded, stepping toward him, her brown eyes flashing with anger. "Your prisoner? Your secret? The servants are already whispering about me! They think I'm your mistress!"

Victor set his glass down on the side table with a soft click. He stood up slowly, towering over her, his presence fillling the room.

"Do you care what they think?" he asked softly.

"I care about who I am!" Chloe said, her voice cracking slightly. "My father ruined his life for money and crime! I spent three years trying to keep my head clean! Now I'm living in a mafia boss's mansion, eating his food, sleeping in his guest rooms, and watching him draw guns on people because of me!"

"I drew that gun because she hurt you," Victor declared, taking a step closer. "No one hurts what belongs to me."

"I don't belong to you!" Chloe shouted, poking his chest with her finger.

Victor caught her wrist gently—the same wrist that had been burned earlier. He held it carefully, his thumb brushing over her soft skin.

"Don't I?" Victor whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from hers. "Who saved my life when I was bleeding to death, Chloe? Who slept beside me when no woman has been near my bed in five years? Who makes this godforsaken stone house feel like something worth coming home to?"

Chloe’s breath hitched in her throat. The anger in her eyes dissolved into a deep, dizzying longing.

"Victor..." she breathed.

"I have spent five years surrounded by enemies, fake smiles, and blood," Victor murmured, his dark eyes searching her face. "I thought I was dead inside. Then you fell asleep in my bed with a fever, Bennett. And I realized I was just waiting for you."

He cupped her cheek with his large, warm hand. His touch was so gentle, so reverent, that tears spilled over Chloe's eyelashes.

He bent his head and kissed her.

It wasn't a brutal, possessive kiss of a crime lord. It was slow, deep, and filled with a desperate, buried tenderness. Chloe let out a soft sigh, her arms wrapping around his neck, her fingers tangling into his dark hair as she pulled him closer.

The world outside—the snow, the mobsters, the guns, the dangerous empire—vanished into nothingness.

When Victor finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, both of them were breathing heavily.

"You're in danger as long as you're near me," Victor admitted softly, his dark eyes filled with rare vulnerability. "Donati will come for you to get to me."