I took three bullets saving the mafia boss’s six-year-old son—and when I woke up, his “reward” was five terrifying words: “You’re going to be my wife.”

Not because the doctors approved.

They did not.

Two surgeons argued in the hallway while Victor signed forms with one hand and called security teams with the other. By the time I was placed into the back of an armored SUV, the private entrance was sealed, the hospital cameras were being reviewed, and three nurses had been questioned.

Leo sat beside me, buckled in with both hands around his dinosaur backpack.

Victor sat across from us.

His phone never stopped vibrating.

I watched Chicago blur past tinted glass. Rain streaked the city into silver lines. Every stoplight made my guards tense. Every passing motorcycle made Victor’s eyes sharpen.

I had married him less than an hour ago, and already I understood something.

Being Victor Romano’s wife did not mean entering a house.

It meant entering a war.

The Romano estate looked different when we returned.

The broken sunroom had been covered with black tarp. Men patrolled the roof. Floodlights cut through the rain. The iron gates had been replaced with temporary steel barriers, and guard dogs moved like shadows across the lawn.

Eight months ago, I had entered through the service door with a cleaning bucket.

That night, Victor carried me through the front entrance.

“I can walk,” I said, though I absolutely could not.

“You can barely breathe.”

“I have dignity.”

“You have three healing bullet wounds.”

“That too.”

Leo walked beside us, holding my cardigan sleeve as if I might vanish.

Inside, the staff had lined up near the grand staircase.

Cooks. Drivers. maids. guards. The nanny, Patricia, stood at the end, pale and stiff.

I recognized most of them.

They recognized me, too.

But their eyes did not know where to land. Yesterday, I had been the quiet maid who polished the silver and scrubbed blood from grout. Tonight, I was in Victor Romano’s arms with a wedding ring on my finger.

Victor stopped in the center of the foyer.

His voice carried without effort.

“This is my wife, Mara Romano. Any disrespect toward her is disrespect toward me. Any threat against her is answered by me. Any person here who has a problem with that should leave now.”

No one moved.

Then Patricia smiled thinly.

“How wonderful for Leo,” she said. “A replacement mother already.”

Victor’s eyes turned cold.

Before he could speak, I did.

“I’m not replacing anyone.”

My voice was weak, but the foyer heard it.

“Good,” Patricia said. “Because some women cannot be replaced.”

Leo flinched.

That was when I stopped feeling weak.

I looked at her. “No. They can’t. Which is why you shouldn’t use his mother’s memory like a knife in front of him.”

The silence that followed was delicious.

Patricia’s face reddened.

Victor looked down at me, and for one second I thought I saw approval.

Then he said to his security chief, “Patricia leaves tonight.”

Her mouth fell open. “Mr. Romano—”

“You were responsible for Leo during the attack,” Victor said. “You were not in the room. You were arguing with the chef.”

“I didn’t know—”

“You were paid to know.”

Two guards stepped forward.

Patricia’s mask cracked. “That maid has been here eight months and suddenly she’s your wife? You think people won’t laugh behind your back?”

Victor smiled.

It was a terrible smile.

“Let them laugh quietly.”

Patricia’s eyes snapped to me.

“You have no idea what you married into.”

I met her stare.

“No,” I said. “But I know what I survived.”

She was escorted out.

The staff watched her go.

Victor carried me upstairs.

“Was that necessary?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You could have reassigned her.”

“She made Leo feel guilty for loving someone alive.”

His answer silenced me.

We reached the east wing. I expected one of the guest rooms. Instead, Victor stopped before a pair of carved double doors I had never been allowed to touch as staff.

The first wife’s room.

I stiffened.

“No.”

Victor looked at me.

“I said my own room.”

“This is the safest room in the house.”

“It was Alessia’s.”

His hand tightened beneath my knees.

“It was a room,” he said. “Not a shrine.”

But his voice betrayed him.

A guard opened the doors.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender and closed windows. Everything was beautiful. Cream walls. Heavy curtains. A fireplace. A vanity with an oval mirror. A balcony overlooking the garden.

And everywhere, ghosts.

A pearl-handled brush on the vanity.

A silk scarf folded over a chair.

A framed photograph of Alessia holding baby Leo.

I felt like an intruder in a dead woman’s breath.

Victor set me carefully on the bed.

“I can stay somewhere else,” I said.

“No.”

“Victor—”

“The panic room is behind that wardrobe. The windows are reinforced. The door locks from inside. There’s a private medical station through there.” He pointed to a side door. “This room keeps you alive.”

“And what does it do to Leo?”

Victor looked toward the photograph.

Pain crossed his face so quickly I almost missed it.

“He hasn’t come in here since she died.”

A soft sound came from the doorway.

Leo stood there, staring into the room.

His eyes were huge.

Victor turned. “Leo—”

But Leo walked past him.

He went to the photograph on the dresser and touched the frame.

“Mommy liked this room,” he said.

My throat tightened.