A RICH WOMAN PAID ME $5,000 TO KISS A STRANGER—THEN I DISCOVERED HE WAS THE CITY'S MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS. I only wanted enough money to fix my little sister's teeth and keep us from being evicted. The woman who dared me thought she'd found the perfect way to humiliate him, and I was desperate enough to help. But when his guards dragged me toward the exit, he suddenly called my name—and everything changed.

The sun had barely crept over the Manhattan skyline when the sleek black SUV pulled up in front of our crumbling apartment building in Astoria.

The contrast was grotesque. The trash cans outside the rusted chain-link fence were overflowing, the sidewalk smelled of damp concrete and cheap exhaust, and standing on the front stoop were two six-foot-two men in tailored black suits, dark sunglasses, and earpieces.

"Diane? Who are those men?"

Sadie was clutching my hand so tightly her knuckles were white. She wore her faded blue dungarees and her canvas sneakers with the worn soles. Her front teeth, crowded and protruding at an awkward angle, caught her lower lip as her eyes darted between the massive black vehicles and me.

"They're... they're friends of an employer, sweetie," I said, forcing the calmest, warmest smile I could muster, though inside, my stomach was a churning cauldron of acid. "Remember what I told you last night? My new job comes with housing. A really, really nice place."

"Are we being evicted again?" she asked, her small voice trembling with the trauma of our past two years. "Is the landlord throwing our boxes onto the street?"

My heart tore clean in two. I dropped to my knees on the cracked linoleum floor of our tiny hallway, taking her fragile little shoulders in my hands.

"No, baby. Nobody is ever going to throw our things away again. I promise you. Look at me." I waited until her tear-glossed hazel eyes locked onto mine. "We're going to live somewhere safe. You're going to have your own bedroom. A giant bed with fluffy pillows. And on Monday, you’re seeing the doctor who is going to make your teeth as straight and beautiful as a movie star's."

"Really?" she whispered.

"Really."

"Is there pancakes?"

A tear escaped my eye, but I brushed it away with a laugh. "All the pancakes you can eat."

Ten minutes later, our meager worldly possessions—three cardboard boxes of clothes, Sadie’s schoolbooks, and the framed photograph of our parents on their wedding day—were loaded into the trunk of the SUV. I handed the rusted keys to Mr. Henderson, the superintendent, who looked at the two giant mafia bodyguards behind me, looked at the cashier’s check for six months of rent paid in advance that Ryan's fixer had handed him, and swallowed so hard his Adam's apple nearly choked him.

The drive to Manhattan was surreal. We crossed the Queensboro Bridge, watching the silver spires of the city gleam like crystal towers in the morning light.

When the convoy pulled into the underground private garage of a soaring glass monolith on Park Avenue, a private elevator whisked us sixty stories into the clouds. The elevator doors slid open with a whisper of brass and velvet, revealing a penthouse that looked like it had been carved out of light and stone.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a 360-degree panorama of Central Park, the green canopy stretching out like an emerald ocean beneath us. White Italian marble floors stretched into an open-concept living pavilion with minimalist charcoal furniture, roaring gas fireplaces encased in glass, and abstract oil paintings that probably cost more than our entire Astoria apartment block.

"Holy cow," Sadie breathed, dropping her stuffed rabbit on the pristine floor.

"Welcome home, Miss Harper."

Victor appeared from a discreet corridor, holding a leather-bound folder. He was flanked by a woman in a crisp gray uniform with silver hair tied into a neat bun.

"This is Mrs. Gable, the estate manager," Victor said smoothly. "Her staff will cater to your sister’s needs. Sadie's bedroom is down the east wing—decorated in lavender, as per the preferences logged in her school files. A private tutor will arrive at one o'clock to assess her curriculum before her transfer to Brearley on Monday."

Sadie looked at me, eyes wide as saucers. "Lavender? My favorite color!"

"Go check it out, bug," I said softly, kissing her forehead.

She squealed and took off down the hallway, escorted gently by Mrs. Gable. Watching her little sneakers squeak across the million-dollar marble was the first moment of genuine peace I had felt in two agonizing years. If selling my freedom meant seeing her run like that, I would sign Ryan Greer’s contract a hundred times over.

"And for you, Diane," Victor said, gesturing toward the west wing. "The master suite."

I stiffened. "I'm sleeping in his room?"

"Mr. Greer's orders. To the world—and to the staff—you are his passionate, sudden obsession. A mafia boss does not place his bride in the guest quarters." Victor’s eyes held a subtle, warning flicker. "Mr. Greer has already left for the docks. He expects you dressed and ready by seven this evening. You have a dinner party."

Before I could ask what kind of dinner, two women emerged carrying garment bags that rustled with high-end silk.

When they unzipped them, I felt my jaw drop. Dresses from Dior, Givenchy, and Valentino hung before me like museum pieces. Jewel cases were snapped open, revealing diamonds that burned with blinding clarity under the LED track lighting.

"What is this?" I asked, backing away.

"Your transformation," Victor replied calmly. "Tonight, the five families of New York dine at the Metropolitan Club. Marcus Voss will be in attendance. Mr. Greer intends to make your debut unforgettable."

By six o'clock, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me in the three-way gilded mirror.

My messy brunette hair had been swept into an intricate, cascading chignon with delicate tendrils framing my neck. My tired eyes, usually darkened by sleepless nights of waitressing and studying balance sheets, were accentuated by smokey charcoal shadow and long, feathered lashes.

The dress was a masterpiece of midnight blue emerald velvet that clung to my waist and hips like liquid shadow, featuring an off-the-shoulder neckline that left my collarbones bare.

The heavy oak doors of the master suite swung open.

I turned.

Ryan Greer walked in. He wore a bespoke tuxedo of midnight black, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. The moment his storm-gray eyes caught mine, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The cold, impassive mask he wore slipped for a fraction of a second. His gaze swept down the length of my body, slow, deliberate, and searing, lingering on the curve of my waist before returning to my throat.

"You clean up well, little waitress," he said, his voice deep, rough at the edges.

"Do I pass inspection, Mr. Greer?" I retorted, crossing my arms defensively, trying to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks. "Or am I still a liability?"

Ryan walked toward me, his footfalls silent on the thick Persian runner. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of me, so close I could feel the radiant heat radiating from his chest.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. He snapped it open.

Inside lay a ring that made the breath catch in my lungs: an eight-carat emerald-cut diamond flanked by tapered baguettes, mounted on a platinum band. It looked ancient, majestic, and terrifyingly permanent.

"Give me your left hand," Ryan commanded quietly.

My fingers trembled as I raised my hand. Ryan took it in his. His palm was warm, rough with calluses, his grip steady as iron. He slid the ring onto my fourth finger. It was a flawless fit.

"From this second until this contract ends, you are mine," Ryan whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the side of my knuckle, sending a jolt of fire through my veins. "If Marcus Voss looks at you, you look back at him like you hold his life in your hands. Because through me, you do."

I looked up into those ruthless storm eyes, my heart racing against my ribs. "And if I make a mistake?"

Ryan’s hand slid from my fingers to the nape of my neck, pulling me just an inch closer, his thumb resting right over my fluttering carotid pulse.