Chapter 1 - 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.
May you like
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.”
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