She Entered The Wrong Bedroom At A Billionaire Gala — Then Woke Up Next To Chicago’s Most Feared Mafia Boss With A Ring On Her Finger.

PART 9

“I planned to keep you beside me.”

“That is not safer.”

“It is the safest place available.”

I stepped closer.

“You keep deciding what happens to me and calling it protection.”

His face hardened.

“If I allow you to leave, you die.”

“If you take me to that gala, I could die there.”

“I will not let that happen.”

“You cannot control every bullet in a room.”

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, I said, “I will attend under one condition.”

“What condition?”

“If there is an attack, your goal is not revenge. It is stopping the people responsible and getting the innocent ones out.”

“Harper—”

“No executions. No bodies disappearing into rivers. The evidence goes to law enforcement.”

His eyes turned unreadable.

“You are asking me to expose my own organization.”

“I am asking whether there is any line you will not cross.”

He moved toward the window.

For several seconds, only the wind against the glass could be heard.

“My father was killed when I was nineteen,” he said. “I inherited this family before I understood what inheriting meant. Every violent decision I made afterward was called loyalty.”

He turned back.

“If I give the authorities evidence against Marino, they will investigate us too.”

“Maybe they should.”

Any other person might have been terrified to say it.

Perhaps I was terrified.

But I said it anyway.

Dominic watched me for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

“Evidence. Arrests. No revenge.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, I realized Dominic Castelli had just chosen my judgment over the rules that had governed his entire life.

That frightened me for an entirely different reason.

Because somewhere between the contract, the danger, and the way he had asked permission before touching me, I had started caring whether he survived too.

Saturday arrived beneath a sky heavy with snow.

The engagement gala was held at the Hawthorne Grand, a restored hotel near the lake with marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and enough crystal chandeliers to make the ballroom glow like daylight.

Two hundred guests filled the room.

Every one of them had been searched.

That did not make me feel safer.

I wore an ivory silk gown with long sleeves and a sweeping skirt. Nonna Rosa had fastened a sapphire necklace around my throat, claiming every Castelli bride had worn it since 1928.

“I’m not actually a bride,” I reminded her.

“Technicalities.”

Dominic waited at the bottom of the staircase.

He wore a black tuxedo, his expression composed for the watching crowd. But when I reached him, his eyes softened.

“You look nervous,” I said.

“I am.”

“Dominic Castelli gets nervous?”

“Only when something matters.”

He offered his hand.

I placed mine in it.

Cameras flashed as we entered the ballroom.

For the first hour, nothing happened.

We greeted guests, posed for photographs, and listened to speeches about family unity. Beneath the music and laughter, I noticed guards exchanging signals near the exits.

Matteo approached while Dominic and I stood beside the dance floor.

“Marino’s vehicles have arrived,” he murmured. “Victoria is with them.”

“How many?” Dominic asked.

“More than expected.”

Dominic’s fingers tightened around mine.

“Begin the recording.”

I knew what that meant.

Every camera, microphone, and security system in the ballroom was capturing what came next. Federal investigators waited several blocks away, ready to act once the Marinos revealed their intentions.

A jazz band began the first dance.

Dominic drew me into his arms.

“Do not let go of me,” he said.

“That line was more romantic during rehearsal.”

“I am serious.”

“So am I.”

We moved across the polished floor.