I Need a Boyfriend by Tomorrow,” the Plus-Size Maid Whispered—And Her Mafia Boss Heard Everything

“I Need a Boyfriend by Tomorrow,” the Plus-Size Maid Whispered—And Her Mafia Boss Heard Everything

Sadi had reached rock bottom so completely that she had started talking to herself.

Standing over a sink filled with soapy water, she whispered what might have been the most pathetic sentence of her life.

“I need a boyfriend by tomorrow.”

She thought she was alone.

She was not.

The man sitting in the shadows did not merely own the house. He owned half the city. And for reasons Sadi could not begin to understand, the most dangerous man in Chicago was about to volunteer.

The kitchen of the Rossi estate was the size of a commercial restaurant, all brushed steel and white marble. At 2:00 in the morning, it felt like a morgue.

Sadi leaned her weight against the edge of the deep farmhouse sink, letting the cold stone press through her damp apron and into her stomach. Her feet throbbed. A dull, rhythmic ache traveled from her heels all the way up her calves, the price of spending 14 hours on her feet catering to men who treated her like part of the furniture.

She scrubbed a cast-iron skillet with a wire brush.

The scraping echoed beneath the high ceiling.

It was the only sound in the house.

Down in the basement, the security detail played poker in silence. Upstairs, the boss slept—or did not. No one really knew what Roman Rossi did when the lights went out.

Sadi preferred not to think about it.

Her job was to clean the messes. She did not ask how blood got onto the cuffs of shirts she took to the dry cleaner, and she did not ask why the heavy oak doors to the east wing were locked from the outside.

Her phone buzzed sharply in her apron pocket.

Sadi ignored it and dug the wire brush harder into the grease.

It buzzed again.

Then again.

3 rapid vibrations.

She sighed, dried her raw pink hands on a towel, and pulled out the phone.

The screen glared at her in the dim kitchen.

Her mother.

The messages had come in one after another.

“Are you still bringing a plus one tomorrow? I need to tell the caterer. It’s $150 a plate, Sadi.”

Then:

“Chloe is stressed enough. Please don’t make a scene by showing up alone and moping.”

And finally:

“Derek and his new fiancée will be at table 4. I put you at table 12 near the kitchen so you don’t feel awkward.”

Near the kitchen.

Of course.

So she would not feel awkward.

Or, more accurately, so she would not ruin the aesthetics of her younger sister’s perfect wedding photographs.

Sadi locked the phone and placed it facedown on the marble island.

A hot, thick lump formed in her throat. She swallowed hard, refusing to let it reach her eyes.

She was 28 years old. She paid her own rent. She worked grueling hours without complaint. Yet a few messages from her mother could still reduce her to a pathetic, insecure teenager.

Derek.

Table 4.

She had not seen him in 2 years.

Not since the afternoon he had packed his things into his Honda Civic and told her, with a look of suffocating pity, that he needed someone who took care of themselves.

3 months later, he had become engaged to a Pilates instructor who weighed 100 lb soaking wet.

Sadi looked at her reflection in the dark, uncurtained window above the sink.

She saw the familiar curves, the soft jawline, broad shoulders, and thick thighs hidden beneath the drab uniform.

She had spent a lifetime trying to shrink herself, trying to occupy less space in a world that seemed to demand women be small and delicate.

It had never worked.

She was loud.

She was soft.

She was large.

And tomorrow, she was walking directly into the lion’s den.

Sadi turned on the faucet and let hot water run over her hands, simply to feel something other than the crushing weight of humiliation.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered.

Her own voice cracked through the empty kitchen.

It sounded small.

Weak.

“I can’t walk in there alone.”

She gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white.

The tears came then, hot and fast, spilling over her eyelashes and dropping onto the stainless steel.

Sadi wiped roughly at her face with the back of her wrist.

“I just… I need a boyfriend by tomorrow.”

It was a pathetic plea to a universe that did not care.

A wish thrown into a void.

Then a voice broke the silence.

Low, gravelly, and entirely too close.

“What time is the event?”

Sadi froze.

The blood drained from her face.

Slowly, she turned.

Roman Rossi sat at the far end of the island, half swallowed by shadow.

He was not wearing one of his usual tailored suits. He had on dark gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. A glass of amber liquor rested in one hand.

In that light, he did not look like a mob boss.

He looked tired.

But his eyes—dark, calculating, entirely without warmth—were fixed on her.

“Mr. Rossi.”

Sadi gasped and pressed a hand to her chest.

“I—I didn’t know you were down here. I’m sorry. I’ll finish up and leave.”

“I asked you a question, Sadi.”

His voice barely rose above a murmur, yet it commanded the room.

Roman took a slow drink. Ice clicked against crystal.

“What time is the event tomorrow?”

Sadi stared at him, her thoughts stalling.

She wiped her hands frantically on her apron.

“It’s nothing, sir. Just a family thing. My sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner. I was just talking to myself. I apologize.”

She reached for her phone, desperate to escape.

“Table 12, near the kitchen,” Roman said.

Sadi’s stomach dropped.

He had seen the messages.

The phone had been faceup earlier, notifications glowing across the lock screen before she turned it over.

Humiliation burned through her veins.

“That’s private.”

The words escaped before she remembered whom she was speaking to.

You did not snap at Roman Rossi.

Men ended up at the bottom of the Chicago River for less.

Roman did not blink.

He merely studied her outburst with mild curiosity before setting his glass down.

The heavy thud sounded like a judge’s gavel.

“You make my coffee at 5:30 every morning,” he said. “You remember I take it black with a pinch of salt. When the feds raided this house last month, you didn’t panic. You kept sweeping the floor while they tore apart the drywall.”

“It’s my job.”

“You’re loyal. You’re quiet. You don’t ask questions.”

Roman stood.

At 6’3″, he was massive, built like a heavyweight fighter disguised as a businessman.

He walked around the island, bare feet making almost no sound against the tile.

He stopped several feet from Sadi.

The smell of cedar, expensive soap, and something faintly metallic hovered around him.

“You need a boyfriend by tomorrow,” Roman said.

It was not a question.

“Someone to show up, sit at table 12, and make the ex-boyfriend at table 4 regret his life choices.”

Sadi crossed her arms over her chest.

She became painfully aware of herself.

Messy bun. No makeup. Exhausted eyes. A body that always seemed to take up too much room.

“Please don’t make fun of me, Mr. Rossi. I’ve had a really long day.”

“I don’t make fun of people, Sadi. I don’t have the sense of humor for it.”

His expression remained completely deadpan.

“What I have is a problem of my own. Tomorrow night, there is a sit-down with the Moretti family on the South Side. If I go, I have to kill 2 men. It’s going to be a messy, loud affair, and the police will be crawling all over my businesses by Sunday morning.”

Sadi stared at him with her mouth slightly open.

He was discussing murder with the same casual inflection another person might use to discuss the weather.

“However,” Roman continued, stepping closer, “if I am at a suburban rehearsal dinner in Naperville, surrounded by 50 civilian witnesses, eating dry chicken and making small talk with your mother, I have an ironclad alibi. My lieutenants can handle the Morettis quietly, and I remain completely untouchable.”

Sadi could barely breathe.

“You want…”

She swallowed.

“You want to come to my sister’s wedding dinner. As my date?”

“As your boyfriend,” Roman corrected. “A date implies we’re testing the waters. A boyfriend implies history. It implies I’m invested.”

“You don’t even know my last name.”

“Sadi Miller. Born in Oak Park. 28. No criminal record. Awful credit score. And you owe $12,000 in student loans for an art history degree you don’t use.”

Roman recited the information without hesitation.

“I run background checks on everyone who works in my house. I know more about you than the idiot at table 4.”

Anger cut briefly through Sadi’s fear.

“You can’t just step into my life like it’s a business transaction.”

“Everything is a transaction, Sadi.”

Roman reached out.

She flinched.

He merely picked up her phone, wiped a smudge from its screen with his thumb, and handed it back.

“You want to walk into that room and watch them pity you? You want to sit near the kitchen and eat alone while they whisper about your weight and your failed relationship?”

His dark eyes held hers.

“Or you can walk in with me.”

Sadi looked at the phone and then at Roman.

He was not doing this to be kind.

Kindness did not exist in his world.

He needed leverage.

An alibi.

It was clinical.

But when she imagined Derek’s smug face and her mother’s condescending smile, something dark and reckless flared inside her.

“If you come, you have to play the part.”

Roman waited.

“No guns. No threatening the caterers. You have to pretend you actually like me.”

Roman’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

A muscle moved in his jaw.

“I know how to play a part, Sadi.”

His voice was quieter now.

“What time do I pick you up?”

“6:00.”

“Be ready at 5:45.”

Roman turned and started toward the dark hallway.

“And Sadi.”

She looked at him.

“Tell your mother to move us to table 4.”

At exactly 5:43 the following evening, Sadi stood in the foyer of her tiny apartment staring into a cheap full-length mirror.

She felt sick.

Her stomach churned with dread and a bizarre, terrifying adrenaline.

She wore a deep emerald-green dress. It wrapped around her waist, plunged slightly at the neckline, and fell in heavy, elegant folds to her calves.

She had bought it 3 months earlier, promising herself she would lose 10 lb before wearing it.

She had not lost a single ounce.

Yet now, looking at herself, she saw that the rich green complemented her dark hair. The cut hugged her hips in a way that made her appear lush rather than merely heavy.

Her hands still shook as she adjusted the strap.

What was she doing?

She was taking a mobster to a country club.

She was going to end up in jail.

Or worse, she would be humiliated when Roman realized how absurd the entire situation was and abandoned her.

A low, heavy engine rumbled outside, vibrating the apartment windows.

Sadi looked through the blinds.

A matte-black SUV idled at the curb.

It resembled a military vehicle stripped of its turrets.

She grabbed her clutch and went downstairs, heels clicking loudly against the concrete steps.

As she reached the bottom, the driver’s door opened.

Sadi stopped.

Roman Rossi stepped onto the cracked pavement.

The contrast was jarring.

He belonged to darkness, mahogany rooms, and cigar smoke.

Under the fading afternoon sun, he seemed far too real.

Roman wore a dark navy suit without a tie, the top 2 buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.

He did not look like a thug.

He looked like old, dangerous money.

He did not smile when she approached.

He simply looked at her.

His gaze began at her face, moved slowly over the emerald dress, lingered on the curve of her hips, and returned to her eyes.

“You look nice.”

His delivery was flat, devoid of conventional male flattery.

That somehow made it sound like an objective and indisputable fact.

“You look… not like a murderer.”

Sadi immediately regretted speaking.

The corner of Roman’s mouth twitched.

It was the closest thing to a smile she had ever seen from him.

“Get in the car, Sadi.”

He opened the passenger door.

The SUV smelled of expensive leather and peppermint.

Roman drove himself that evening.

There was no chauffeur.

Just the 2 of them.

After pulling away from the curb, he reached into the center console, removed a manila folder, and dropped it into Sadi’s lap.

“Read it.”

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

“My name is Roman,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I own a logistics firm in the West Loop. We manage supply chains. It’s boring enough that nobody will ask follow-up questions. We met 6 months ago at a coffee shop near my office. You spilled a latte on my shoes. I asked for your number as compensation.”

Sadi stared at the page.

“6 months? We’ve been dating for half a year and I never mentioned you to my family?”

“You kept me secret because your family is overbearing and judgmental, and you wanted to protect the relationship until you were sure it was serious.”

“Now I’m sure?”

The lie was seamless.

It even transformed her secrecy into fierce independence instead of loneliness.

The remainder of the 30-minute drive passed mostly in silence.

The city skyline faded behind them, replaced by the manicured lawns of the suburbs.

They entered the circular driveway of Oakridge Country Club, a sterile, overpriced venue decorated with faux Greek columns and too much brass.

Roman shut off the engine.

Then he looked at her.

Sadi’s chest rose and fell too quickly.

She held her leather clutch so tightly that her fingers hurt.

“Hey.”

She looked at him.

“Breathe.”

It was a command, not a suggestion.

Sadi inhaled deeply and released a shaky breath.

“They’re just people, Sadi. They bleed. They pay taxes. They die. They have no power over you unless you hand it to them.”

His voice dropped lower, anchoring her erratic pulse.

“Do not hand it to them.”

Roman got out, came around the SUV, and opened her door.

When Sadi stepped onto the gravel, he did not offer his arm.

Instead, his large hand settled firmly against her lower back.

Heat passed through the thin fabric of her dress.

The gesture was possessive.

Grounding.

Dominant.

Sadi’s breath caught.

Then she straightened and allowed herself to lean slightly into him.

Together, they passed through the glass doors and followed the carpeted hallway toward the banquet room.

A sign on an easel announced Chloe and Mark’s rehearsal dinner.

Sadi stopped at the entrance.

Inside, approximately 50 guests laughed and drank beneath warm lights.

She immediately saw her mother, Helen Miller, a sharp, angular woman in a beige suit hovering near the head table.

Then she saw Derek.

He looked exactly the same.

Thin.

Overly groomed.

A champagne glass in his hand.

Beside him stood a tiny blonde woman laughing loudly at something he had said.

“Ready?” Roman murmured near Sadi’s ear.

His breath warmed her skin.

“No.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Roman did not allow her to slip quietly along the walls toward the kitchen.

His hand remained against the small of her back as he guided her directly through the center of the banquet room, past the ice sculpture and into the light.

The effect was immediate.

Roman Rossi was not a man who disappeared into a crowd.

He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of an apex predator.

The room gradually quieted.

Heads turned.

People looked at the massive dark-haired man in the expensive suit.

Then they looked at the woman he was touching.

Sadi Miller.

The quiet, overweight older sister.

The spinster.

Helen turned with a polite smile already fixed on her face.

The smile froze.

Then it broke apart entirely as she took in Sadi, the emerald dress, and the terrifyingly handsome man beside her.

Derek stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence.

His champagne glass slowly lowered.

He stared at Sadi.

His eyes moved over her curves.

Then they darted to Roman.

Roman met Derek’s gaze.

He did not glare.

He did not frown.

He merely regarded Derek the way a man might look at an insect on the pavement before stepping over it.

Derek visibly swallowed.

Then he looked away.

Roman leaned down and pressed his mouth against the side of Sadi’s head.

“You didn’t tell me your family was so easily impressed, darling.”

His voice was loud enough for the suddenly quiet room to hear.

A slow, dark smile spread across Sadi’s face.

For the first time in her life, she was not the punchline.

She was the punch.

Table 4 stood beside the large bay windows, far from the kitchen doors.

Helen Miller had rearranged the seating chart almost immediately after seeing Roman’s hand on the small of her daughter’s back.

Sadi sat stiffly, staring at the basket of stale dinner rolls in the center of the table.

Roman sat to her left.

He occupied an extraordinary amount of space. His broad shoulders intruded into her personal bubble, and beneath the white tablecloth, his knee rested casually against hers.

The contact sent a steady, low-voltage shock through her.

Across from them sat Derek and Amber.

Amber was the Pilates instructor.

She was picking croutons from her side salad with a manicured fingernail, seemingly unable to understand why the room’s gravitational center had suddenly shifted.

Derek looked as though he were trying to digest a golf ball.

“So, Roman.”

Helen pulled a chair over from a neighboring table and leaned toward him.

Her eyes flicked between his tailored suit and the expensive watch at his wrist.

“Sadi has kept you a complete secret. She didn’t even mention she was seeing anyone, let alone someone in logistics.”

Helen pronounced “logistics” the way another person might say “garbage collection.”

Roman did not answer immediately.

He picked up his water, drank slowly, and replaced the glass.

The silence stretched until Helen shifted uncomfortably.

“Sadi is a private woman, Mrs. Miller. In my line of work, discretion is a highly valued trait. It’s one of the first things I noticed about her.”

“And what exactly is your line of work?” Derek asked.

He leaned forward, attempting to inflate his chest beneath a poorly fitted gray blazer.

“Logistics is pretty broad. Are you pushing paper? Driving trucks?”

Roman looked at him.

Not offended.

Bored.

“I own the trucks, Derek. And the warehouses. And the freight lines that supply half the restaurants in the greater Chicago area.”

Derek’s jaw tightened.

“Right. Well, supply chain is a tough racket right now. A lot of guys go under trying to scale too fast.”

“I don’t go under.”

It was not a boast.

Roman delivered it as an absolute, irrefutable fact.

The deadness in his eyes carried the rest of the message.

Stop talking.

Derek swallowed and looked down.

Amber remained oblivious.

“How did you 2 meet? Sadi, you never go into the city. You always say parking gives you anxiety.”

“She spilled coffee on me,” Roman said before Sadi could stumble through the fabricated story.

He turned toward her with an expression approaching warmth.

The performance was disturbingly convincing.

“A large latte ruined a $400 pair of shoes. I was furious until she looked up at me. I asked for her number instead of the dry-cleaning bill.”

Helen produced a brittle laugh.

“That sounds like our Sadi. Always a little clumsy. I remember when she tripped over the altar at her cousin’s baptism.”

“I find her graceful.”

Roman’s words cut straight through Helen’s story.

The table went silent.

“In fact, I’ve rarely met anyone who handles themselves with as much poise. Especially under pressure.”

Beneath the table, Roman covered Sadi’s hand with his.

She had been crushing her napkin between white knuckles.

His thumb stroked the back of her hand slowly, rhythmically.

Sadi released a breath she had not realized she was holding.

Helen’s mouth remained slightly open.

For the next hour, Roman dismantled every passive-aggressive remark directed at Sadi.

He never argued.

He simply answered with an icy logic that left Derek progressively smaller in his chair and Helen increasingly desperate to discuss the floral arrangements.

When the waitstaff cleared the dry chicken and lukewarm asparagus, Roman’s phone vibrated once inside his breast pocket.

He waited exactly 2 minutes before leaning toward Sadi.

“I need to take this. Stay here.”

Then, more quietly:

“Do not let them shrink you.”

Roman stood, buttoned his jacket with one hand, nodded curtly at the table, and walked toward the rear exit.

Sadi watched him disappear.

Without him, the air immediately felt thinner.

The familiar weight of her family’s judgment began creeping back.

Later, Sadi pushed through the heavy glass door leading to the country club patio.

It was deserted.

Inside, the best man was giving a drunken, rambling toast.

Outside, industrial air-conditioning units drowned out the muffled laughter.

Sadi leaned heavily against the brick half wall and closed her eyes.

Her heart hammered.

The adrenaline of the performance was wearing off, leaving a sharp, hollow anxiety.

She stood there in a $400 dress she could not afford, pretending to be romantically involved with a man who could probably break her neck with 1 hand.

“It’s done.”

Sadi jumped and spun around.

Roman stood beneath the shadow of the awning.

The glow from his phone vanished as he put it away.

His jacket was gone, and his collar was open.

Cigarette smoke clung faintly to him, mixed with peppermint.

“What’s done?”

“The problem on the South Side.”

Roman walked toward her without sound and leaned against the wall.

Beyond them, the golf course was completely black.

Sadi remembered his words from the kitchen.

If he went to the meeting, 2 men would die.

If he attended the rehearsal dinner, he would have an alibi.

“Did someone die?” she whispered.

Roman looked at her.

“Yes.”

The blunt answer hit harder than any elaborate explanation could have.

Sadi gripped the brick.

She had always known what he was.

She cleaned his house.

She saw his guards.

But standing beside him while someone miles away had lost his life because of decisions made in Roman’s world made the reality suffocating.

“Are you afraid of me, Sadi?”

There was no threat in his voice.

Only a weary observation.

“I don’t know.”

Roman nodded.

“You should be. But not tonight. Tonight you’re an employee under my protection, and I take care of my own.”

Sadi laughed bitterly.

“Employee. Right. So you got your alibi. Dinner’s almost over. You can leave. You don’t have to come to the actual wedding tomorrow.”

“We had a deal. I play the boyfriend for the weekend. An alibi requires consistency. If I vanish after dinner, the feds looking into my whereabouts will flag it.”

“I’m attending the wedding.”

“Why are you so good at this?”

The question escaped her.

“With my mother. With Derek. You just neutralized them without even trying.”

“Bullies are predictable.”

Roman removed a silver lighter from his pocket.

He did not light a cigarette.

He merely opened and closed its lid.

Snick.

“Your ex-boyfriend is a coward who bolsters his own fragile ego by making sure the woman beside him feels smaller than he does. Your mother views you as an extension of her social standing. Because you don’t fit the mold she prefers, she punishes you.”

Sadi stared at him.

“You figured all that out in 2 hours?”

“I figure people out for a living. If I don’t, I end up dead.”

He snapped the lighter shut.

Then he stepped closer.

His chest blocked much of the light behind him.

“You let them walk all over you because you think you deserve it.”

“I don’t think I deserve it.”

“Your posture says otherwise.”

Roman’s voice softened.

“You shrink yourself, Sadi. You apologize for taking up space. Stop doing that.”

“It’s easy for you to say. You own a city. I scrub your floors.”

“Power isn’t about what you own. It’s about what you refuse to accept.”

Roman reached toward her.

Sadi stiffened.

He only brushed a loose strand of dark hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.

His fingers were calloused and rough.

The touch was unexpectedly gentle.

“Tomorrow, you put on the bridesmaid dress. You walk down that aisle, and you do not look at the floor once. Do you understand me?”

Sadi looked into his dark eyes.

For a fraction of a second, the mob boss disappeared.

She saw only a man who understood exactly what it meant to be completely alone in a crowded room.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Roman stepped away.

The invisible wall returned immediately.

“Let’s go back inside. You need to eat dessert in front of Amber.”

The bridal suite 2 hours before the wedding was its own specific form of hell.

Sadi stood rigidly before a full-length mirror while a frantic seamstress pulled aggressively at the zipper of her mauve chiffon bridesmaid dress.

The dress was a disaster.

Chloe had chosen a style with a high ruffled neckline and absolutely no structure in the bodice.

It was designed for someone built like Amber.

On Sadi, it looked like a heavily draped punishment.

“Suck in, Sadi, for God’s sake.”

Helen hovered behind the seamstress with a mimosa.

“If you pop that zipper, we don’t have a backup.”

“I am sucking in, Mom.”

The fabric dug painfully into Sadi’s ribs.

She could take only shallow breaths.

“Well, try harder. Chloe is already crying because the florist brought the wrong shade of hydrangeas. Don’t add to her stress.”

Helen studied her daughter’s reflection critically.

“Where is Roman, anyway? Did he realize he had a logistics emergency?”

“He’s coming.”

Sadi prayed that he was.

She had barely slept.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Roman’s calculated stare and felt the weight of his hand over hers.

What frightened her most was how badly she wanted him to walk through that door.

“Right,” Helen said skeptically. “Well, if he shows up, make sure he doesn’t sit near Uncle Arthur. Arthur asks too many questions.”

A sharp knock silenced the suite.

Jessica, one of the bridesmaids who had ignored Sadi all morning, opened the door.

Roman stood there.

He wore a charcoal 3-piece suit tailored precisely to his intimidating frame and a perfectly knotted dark-silver tie.

Behind him stood 2 men in identical dark suits.

Thick necks.

Flat, watchful eyes.

Roman did not look like a wedding guest.

He looked like an invading force.

“You can’t be in here,” Jessica squeaked. “The groom isn’t allowed.”

“I’m not the groom.”

Roman walked past her.

His eyes ignored the scattered makeup, half-eaten room service, and bridesmaids.

They went directly to Sadi.

He took in the mauve chiffon, the panic in her face, and the seamstress fighting the zipper.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Sadi saw it.

He was furious.

“Mr. Rossi,” Helen began.

“We’re in the middle of getting my girlfriend out of that dress,” Roman finished.

He walked directly toward Sadi.

The seamstress retreated.

“Roman, it’s fine,” Sadi whispered. “It just needs to be zipped.”

“It’s choking you.”

He looked at Helen.

“She’s not wearing this.”

Helen bristled.

“Excuse me? That is the designated bridesmaid dress. She is wearing it. The photographer is taking group photographs in 20 minutes, and we are not ruining the aesthetic of this wedding because Sadi refuses to diet.”

Silence consumed the suite.

Sadi closed her eyes.

Humiliation burned behind them.

Roman did not yell.

He turned his head and looked at Helen.

“Mrs. Miller, if you speak to her like that again, I will buy this hotel, cancel the ballroom reservation, and throw you and your florist into the street.”

His voice remained low.

“Do you comprehend me?”

Helen’s mouth opened.

Nothing emerged.

Her face lost its color as she realized he was not joking.

Roman turned his back on her.

“Take it off.”

“I have to wear something.”

“My men brought a garment bag.”

One of the men outside handed him a sleek black canvas bag.

Roman placed it on the bed and unzipped it.

Inside was a dress.

Not mauve.

Midnight blue.

Heavy structured silk.

Sweetheart neckline.

Off-the-shoulder sleeves falling in elegant drapes.

It was dramatic, elegant, and violently expensive.

Sadi stared.

“Where did you get this?”

“I made a phone call at 6:05 this morning. I had a tailor open his shop.”

Roman held it out.

“I know your measurements. Put it on. We leave for the chapel in 10 minutes.”

He gave her no opportunity to argue.

Roman walked out, his 2 guards falling into formation behind him.

The heavy door closed.

5 minutes later, Sadi emerged from the bathroom.

No one spoke.

Helen stared out the window, pale.

The bridesmaids concentrated intensely on their lipstick.

Sadi looked into the mirror.

The midnight-blue dress fit perfectly.

It narrowed at her waist, supported her chest, and fell to her heels like liquid ink.

She no longer looked like a clumsy, overgrown bridesmaid.

She looked like a mafia boss’s wife.

Roman waited in the hallway, leaning against the wallpapered wall while checking his phone.

His thumb moved rapidly across the screen.

The muscle in his jaw flexed.

He looked up.

His gaze traveled over the midnight-blue silk.

The intensity in his eyes caught Sadi’s breath.

“Better.”

“Thank you. But Chloe is going to kill me for not wearing the mauve.”

“Chloe will survive.”

Roman offered his arm.

Sadi slipped her hand through it.

As they walked toward the elevators, Roman’s phone began vibrating.

Once.

Again.

Then repeatedly.

3, 4, 5 times in rapid succession.

His expression turned to granite.

He did not reach for it.

“Is something wrong?”

“My alibi worked perfectly.”

His voice had become a low, gravelly hum.

“But the Moretti family just realized who pulled the trigger last night. And they know I’m not in the city.”

The elevator arrived.

Roman pulled Sadi inside and positioned her slightly behind himself.

Only then did he check his phone.

Sadi caught a glimpse of the message before the screen disappeared.

3 black SUVs had just entered the highway heading toward Oakridge.

They had Roman’s plates.

The wedding was no longer simply a family battleground.

It was a target.

The doors closed.

The elevator began descending.

Roman stared at the brushed steel.

The man who had gently tucked Sadi’s hair behind her ear the night before had vanished.

In his place stood the architect of a Chicago syndicate.

“Roman. What is happening?”

“A miscalculation.”

He reached inside his charcoal jacket.

A matte-black handgun appeared in his hand.

He checked the magazine with a sharp metallic click, then concealed the weapon at the small of his back.

Sadi stopped breathing.

“Are they coming here to kill you?”

The elevator chimed.

Roman looked directly at her.

“They are coming to try.”

The doors opened.

“Stay behind me. Do not let go of my jacket. If I tell you to get down, you drop to the floor and do not look up until I say your name.”

He held her gaze.

“Understood?”

“Yes.”

They stepped into the lobby.

Wedding guests crowded the marble space.

Women in pastel dresses and men in uncomfortable suits waited near the valet stand for transportation to the chapel.

Chloe stood near the revolving doors in a cloud of white tulle, loudly complaining about the humidity.

Roman did not slow.

He moved through the crowd like a freight train.

People instinctively moved aside.

Sadi gripped the back of his jacket and hurried to keep pace.

Then she saw the vehicles through the enormous glass wall.

3 black SUVs tore into the circular driveway.

They ignored the valet lane and slammed to a stop, heavy tires climbing onto the pristine concrete curb.

“Get down!”

Roman’s roar tore through the lobby.

Sadi obeyed immediately.

She threw herself sideways.

Her knees struck marble.

At that exact moment, the first pane of reinforced glass spiderwebbed.

Then it exploded inward.

The lobby filled with screaming and glittering shards.

Roman remained standing.

He moved directly in front of Sadi, turning his body into a tailored shield as safety glass rained over his shoulders.

Outside, 4 men emerged from the SUVs.

Street clothes.

Weapons raised.

Roman drew his pistol.

He fired with terrifying precision.

3 sharp cracks thundered beneath the vaulted ceiling.

The first attacker fell immediately.

The second staggered backward, clutching his shoulder.

The remaining 2 scrambled behind the engine block of the lead SUV, shouting frantically in Italian.

“Move!”

Roman grabbed Sadi by the bicep and hauled her upright.

He dragged her backward toward the heavy oak doors leading into the hotel kitchens.

The wedding party dissolved into hysteria.

Chloe sobbed on the floor, her white dress covered in glass dust.

Helen screamed for security.

Derek—the man who had spent 3 years telling Sadi she needed to be stronger—cowered behind a luggage cart with both hands over his ears.

He trembled violently.

Sadi saw all of it in a single fractured instant.

Then she looked at Roman.

His face held nothing except absolute concentration.

He was not panicking.

He was working.

Roman kicked open the kitchen doors and shoved Sadi through them just as another burst of gunfire tore through the drywall where they had stood seconds earlier.

Kitchen staff fled through the loading dock.

Pots and pans remained abandoned on industrial stoves.

Roman dragged Sadi between stainless-steel prep stations, his shoes slipping slightly on grease.

He pushed her behind the massive door of a walk-in freezer and pressed himself against the wall beside it.

Gun raised.

Chest heaving.

Footsteps crunched through broken glass beyond the swinging kitchen doors.

They were coming.

“Roman.”

Sadi covered her mouth to contain a sob.

He looked down.

A thin cut across his cheekbone leaked a line of red blood.

Roman gripped the back of her neck with his free hand.

His fingers were hot.

Hard.

Completely steady.

“I have you.”

His voice cut through the ringing in her ears.

“I have you. Breathe.”

Then he released her.

A man in a leather jacket came around the corner, sweeping the kitchen with his weapon.

Roman did not fire.

The angle was wrong.

A ricochet would be too dangerous.

Instead, Roman stepped out, crossed the 3 ft between them with terrifying speed, and drove his forearm into the attacker’s throat.

Cartilage crunched.

The man collapsed, choking.

Roman kicked the weapon beneath an industrial oven.

“Out the back.”

He grabbed Sadi again.

They ran through the loading-dock doors and burst into the blinding, humid afternoon.

Roman’s black SUV idled beside the dumpsters.

One of his guards had a bleeding graze on his arm but still held an assault rifle aimed at the alley.

“Get in!”

Roman shoved Sadi into the rear seat and dove in after her.

The door had barely closed before the driver accelerated.

The SUV fishtailed through the alley and tore away from the country club.

Sadi watched the shattered remains of her former life disappear behind them.

For 40 minutes, they drove in suffocating silence.

The SUV cut unpredictably through suburban side streets before reaching the interstate and heading deep into the industrial grit of Chicago’s South Side.

Sadi sat pressed against the armored door.

The midnight-blue silk dress had been destroyed.

Grease from the kitchen floor smeared the expensive fabric. Pulverized glass clung to it.

Her entire body shook.

The tremors began somewhere deep inside her and became violent enough to make her teeth chatter.

Roman sat beside her with a phone against his ear, speaking rapidly in hushed Italian.

The words came sharp and controlled, punctuated by dark commands.

He ended the call and threw the phone onto the center console.

His knuckles were bruised.

Blood from the cut on his cheek had dried into a dark crust.

Roman unbuttoned his jacket and tossed it onto the floor.

“Are you injured?”

His voice was flat, seemingly untouched by the adrenaline burning through Sadi.

“No.”

Her throat felt like sandpaper.

Then anger overwhelmed the fear.

“I just watched you shoot a man, Roman.”

Her voice snapped through the SUV.

“I watched you crush someone’s windpipe next to a deep fryer. Yes, I’m in shock.”

Roman flinched.

Barely.

A tightening of his jaw.

But she saw it.

He looked out the tinted window.

“This is the reality of my life, Sadi. There are no clean edges. I told you I needed an alibi. I didn’t tell you the men I killed last night had brothers who hold grudges.”

His voice lowered.

“You shouldn’t have been there.”

“You brought me there because you asked me to.”

Roman turned back.

For the first time, his voice rose and cracked through the icy façade.

“Because I watched you stand in my kitchen crying over a sink of dirty dishes, letting people who aren’t fit to shine your shoes make you feel like you were nothing.”

Sadi stared at him.

“I wanted to fix it.”

Her breath stopped.

“You…”

The realization came slowly.

“You didn’t do it for the alibi.”

“I could have gone to a crowded casino for an alibi. I could have attended a charity gala with a dozen state senators.”

Roman leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, massive hands clasped.

“I chose a miserable suburban rehearsal dinner because you needed a shield.”

He looked at the floor.

“And all I did was put a target on your back. I ruined your sister’s wedding.”

Sadi’s anger slowly drained away.

In its place came a strange, heavy clarity.

She remembered Derek hiding behind the luggage cart.

Her mother screaming for someone else to solve the problem.

Then Roman stepping into a line of gunfire without hesitation.

The SUV struck a pothole.

Both of them shifted.

The vehicle slowed.

They entered an abandoned shipping yard and drove through the open doors of a massive rusted warehouse.

Steel doors rolled closed behind them.

Dim fluorescent lights replaced the daylight.

Roman’s guard exited first and swept the perimeter.

“Stay here,” Roman said. “I have a medical kit inside. I’ll patch the cut on your arm.”

Sadi looked down.

Only then did she notice the thin, bloody scratch along her forearm from the flying glass.

Roman got out.

Sadi followed.

The safe house was a concrete office built into the rear of the warehouse.

A military cot.

Security monitors.

A metal desk.

Nothing comfortable.

Nothing personal.

Roman removed a white medical box from a cabinet and set it on the desk.

He began taking out gauze and antiseptic.

“Sit.”

Sadi did not.

She approached him instead.

Then she took his wrist.

Roman froze.

Every muscle beneath her hand went rigid.

His eyes slowly lifted.

“I don’t care about the wedding.”

Sadi’s voice had stopped shaking.

“I don’t care about the dress. And I don’t care that they saw.”

Roman frowned.

“They saw you leave with a known criminal, Sadi. You can never go back to that country club. You can never go back to your catering job. The police will be looking for you to give a statement by morning.”

“Good.”

Sadi removed the antiseptic wipe from his unmoving fingers.

She gently held his jaw and pressed it against the dried blood on his cheek.

Roman released a harsh breath.

His hands hovered for a moment.

Then they settled heavily on Sadi’s hips.

His fingers gripped the ruined silk.

His thumbs pressed into the soft curve of her waist.

He did not pull her closer.

He simply anchored her to him as though she were the only solid object left in the room.

“You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Roman’s eyes moved toward her mouth.

“If you stay in this room with me today, I will not let you leave tomorrow.”

His voice dropped.

“I’m a selfish man, Sadi. I take what I want, and I keep it.”

“Then keep me.”

A low sound came from Roman’s chest.

He pulled her against him.

Then he kissed her.

There was none of the controlled, manufactured affection he had performed as her fake boyfriend.

This was desperate.

Bruising.

Real.

The kiss of a man who had nearly lost something before realizing how badly he needed it.

Sadi kissed him back.

Her hand traveled up his chest and closed around the lapels of his ruined vest.

The kiss tasted of copper, adrenaline, and peppermint.

It was messy.

It was violent.

And it felt like waking up.

By sunrise, pale light spilled across Sadi’s apartment.

She stood in the living room wearing old sweatpants and an enormous gray T-shirt belonging to Roman.

He leaned against the counter of her tiny kitchenette drinking coffee from a chipped mug.

Against the thrift-store furniture and potted succulents, he looked completely misplaced.

Lethal.

Beautiful.

His phone had finally stopped ringing 3 hours earlier.

The Moretti family had retreated.

Roman’s lieutenants had spent the night making sure the retaliation was swift and absolute.

There would be no more black SUVs.

Sadi’s phone, however, was vibrating violently on the coffee table.

She picked it up.

24 missed calls from Mom.

Sadi answered.

“Sadi Miller!”

Helen’s shriek was loud enough that Roman could hear it from the kitchen.

“Where are you? The police have been here all night. The venue is a crime scene. The photographer got a picture of you running into an alley with that—that mafia thug. Are you kidnapped? Blink twice if you’re kidnapped. I swear to God—”

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“Fine? The wedding is ruined. Derek is in the hospital for a panic attack, and you are on the evening news. You need to come home right now. You need to tell the police he forced you into that car. We can fix this. We can hire a publicist.”

“Mom. Stop.”

The authority in Sadi’s voice silenced Helen.

“I am not coming home. I wasn’t kidnapped. I left willingly. And I’m not pressing charges or speaking to the police.”

“You are making a massive mistake,” Helen hissed.

Her panic became venom.

“You are throwing away your life for a violent criminal who is using you. You are a maid, Sadi. Do you really think a man like that wants you for anything other than a shield?”

Several days earlier, the words would have destroyed her.

They would have driven her into the familiar pit where she became too large, too loud, too undesirable, too difficult to love.

Sadi looked across the room.

Roman watched her over the rim of his coffee mug.

He did not move forward.

He did not take the phone from her.

He did not fight the battle for her.

He allowed Sadi to fight it herself.

He respected her enough to let her win.

“I don’t scrub floors anymore, Mom.”

Her voice was quiet.

Firm.

“And I don’t let people shrink me to make themselves comfortable. Not you. Not Derek.”

She walked toward the window.

“Tell Chloe I’m sorry her reception was interrupted, but she looked beautiful. I’ll send a gift.”

Sadi paused.

“Goodbye.”

“Sadi, don’t you dare hang up on—”

Sadi ended the call.

She dropped the phone onto the table.

The apartment became quiet except for the old refrigerator.

Roman put down his mug.

He crossed the cheap laminate flooring and stopped inches from her.

His eyes searched her face for regret.

For panic.

For collapse.

There was none.

“She’s going to call the cops.”

“Let her.”

Sadi folded her arms.

“They don’t have a warrant, and I didn’t see anything. I was looking at the floor.”

A slow smirk appeared on Roman’s face.

“You’re a very good liar, Miss Miller.”

“I learned from the best.”

Roman touched her jaw with his thumb.

The humor disappeared from his expression.

What replaced it was heavy and immovable.

“I meant what I said yesterday. You can’t go back.”

Sadi waited.

“The catering company fired you this morning. Your landlord is breaking your lease because my men have been parked outside the building since 4:00 a.m., and he’s terrified.”

“So I’m homeless and unemployed.”

Sadi considered the situation.

“And dating a mobster.”

“You’re not dating me.”

Roman’s hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers slipping into her messy dark hair.

“Dating implies a trial period. I don’t do trials.”

“Then what are we doing, Roman?”

Her breath caught as his thumb moved over the pulse in her throat.

“A partnership.”

He did not phrase it as a question.

“I need someone who doesn’t panic when the drywall gets torn apart. Someone who looks at the monster and doesn’t run.”

Roman leaned closer.