Dominic Russo had a multi-million dollar empire at his feet and fresh violence staining his knuckles. Yet his only desire was the one woman who dared to reject him. When she finally whispered her deepest insecurity, he didn’t flinch. Instead, he simply pinned her against the heavy mahogany door and growled two words that changed everything.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the cramped, windowless back office of Chicago’s most exclusive underground casino. Rosie Harrison sat hunched over a stack of leather-bound ledgers, her fingers flying across a heavy-duty calculator. She was a woman who knew exactly how much space she took up in the world, and she had spent her entire twenty-six years apologizing for it.

At a size eighteen, Rosie was soft curves, thick thighs, and a sharp intellect—all hidden behind oversized cardigans and a quiet demeanor. In the glittering, razor-thin world of high rollers and mafia princesses, Rosie was the invisible workhorse. She preferred it that way. Invisibility meant safety.

“You’re off by three hundred thousand, Peter,” Rosie said. She didn’t look up as the casino’s floor manager slammed his hand onto her desk.

“Check your math, sweetheart.” Peter sneered. His cologne smelled of cheap gin and desperation. “The house took a hit on the baccarat tables. It happens.”

“Not according to the drop boxes.” Rosie replied evenly, finally lifting her chin. She adjusted her glasses, refusing to shrink under his glare. “You skimmed it. And if I sign off on this, it’s my signature on a fraudulent sheet. I won’t do it.”

“Listen to me, you fat cow.” Peter hissed, leaning in so close she could see the spittle on his lips. “You’ll sign it, or I’ll make sure you don’t walk out of here.”

Peter never finished his sentence.

A shadow fell over the doorway, dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees. Rosie’s breath caught in her throat. Dominic Russo didn’t just walk into a room. He commanded the very oxygen within it. He was broad-shouldered and impeccably dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit that concealed the lethal muscle underneath. Dominic was the heir to the Russo syndicate—a ghost in the financial world, a terror in the underworld, and a man who supposedly hadn’t smiled since he was a child.

“Finish your thought, Peter.” Dominic’s voice was a low, melodic rumble, heavily laced with quiet, terrifying violence.

Peter spun around. The blood drained from his face until he looked like a corpse. “Mr. Russo. Sir, I was just explaining a discrepancy to the auditor.”

Dominic stepped fully into the room. His dark eyes never left Rosie. He cataloged her. He noticed the flush on her cheeks and the defiance in her green eyes. He watched the way her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breathing. He didn’t look at her with the pity or the outright disgust she was used to from men in his circle. He looked at her like a starving man staring at a feast.

“Lorenzo,” Dominic said softly without breaking eye contact with Rosie. His massive right-hand man stepped into the frame.

“Yes, boss.”

“Take Peter to the warehouse. He owes us three hundred thousand, extracted from him slowly.”

Peter screamed as Lorenzo dragged him backward by his collar. His pleading echoed down the concrete hallway until the heavy steel door slammed shut. Silence fell over the tiny office. Rosie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She swallowed hard, gripping the edge of her desk to keep her hands from shaking.

“The money. I have the exact accounts right here. I didn’t let him sign off.”

Dominic stepped closer, moving with the predatory grace of a jungle cat. He braced his large, scarred hands on her desk, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. He smelled of bergamot, expensive tobacco, and pure concentrated power.

“I don’t care about the money, Rosie,” he murmured.

She blinked, startled that he knew her name. “You don’t?”

“I care about how my employees are treated.” His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. “Stand up.”

Rosie hesitated, her old insecurities screaming at her. If she stood, she would be completely exposed. She couldn’t hide her wide hips or her full stomach behind the desk. But defying Dominic Russo was a death sentence. She pushed her chair back and stood, wrapping her arms around her waist in a defensive posture.

He was massive, towering over her five-foot-five frame. But for the first time in her life, Rosie didn’t feel monstrous next to a man. She felt enveloped.

“You are stepping into Peter’s role as head of financial operations for my entire Midwest division.” Dominic stated. It wasn’t an offer. It was a decree.

“Mr. Russo, I can’t. I’m just a backroom auditor. I don’t fit into your world. I don’t look the part.”

“You look exactly how I want you to look,” he countered fiercely.

“You don’t understand.” Rosie laughed, letting out a bitter, self-deprecating sound. She backed away toward the heavy mahogany door. She needed distance from the intoxicating heat radiating off him. “I’ve seen the women you associate with—the socialites, the models. They are practically transparent. Look at me, Dominic.”

She gestured wildly to her body, tears of frustration pricking her eyes. “I’m a size eighteen. I have stretch marks. I take up space. I’m too big for you.”

—

Dominic’s expression hardened.

In two long strides, he crossed the room. Before Rosie could gasp, his hands wrapped around her thick waist. He lifted her slightly and pinned her against the solid wood of the door. The impact knocked the breath out of her, replaced instantly by the searing heat of his body pressed flush against hers.

He didn’t shy away from her softness. He pressed his hips into hers, letting her feel the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire. One hand tangled in her dark hair, tilting her head back. The other rested heavily on her hip, his thumb stroking the curve of her belly through her dress.

“Try me,” he growled against her lips.

Rosie whined—a pathetic, needy sound—as his mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was possession. It was a brand. He tasted like expensive whiskey and danger. His tongue swept into her mouth to claim every inch. He kissed her like she was the only woman left on earth. His hands mapped her curves, squeezing her hips, revering the very softness she hated.

When he finally pulled away, Rosie was trembling. Her knees were weak, entirely supported by his grip.

“You take up exactly the right amount of space, mia,” Dominic whispered. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “And you will never apologize for it again. Now pack your things. You’re moving to the penthouse office.”

—

Whispers followed Rosie like a swarm of angry bees.

Three weeks had passed since the incident in the back office. Her rapid ascent to the top of the Russo Empire’s financial ladder had ruffled every feather in the Chicago underworld. But it wasn’t just her new corner office with its floor-to-ceiling windows or the six-figure salary that had people talking. It was the way Dominic Russo hovered over her.

He was relentless.

If Rosie worked late, a five-star meal from her favorite Italian place arrived on her desk, delivered by Lorenzo himself. When she casually mentioned she loved the smell of rain, Dominic had a custom terrarium installed in her office that mimicked a damp forest. He was weaving a web around her, thread by thread, and she was terrifyingly willing to be caught.

But the real test came when Dominic informed her she would be accompanying him to the annual syndicate gala at the Ocenana estate.

“Dominic, please,” Rosie had begged. She stood in his palatial office, tugging at the hem of her blazer. “I can’t go to a gala. I don’t even own a gown that fits into that kind of crowd. They’ll eat me alive.”

“Let them try,” he had replied coldly. “I’ll carve out their tongues.”

He had sent a team of tailors to her apartment the next day. Now, stepping out of the bulletproof Maybach, Rosie felt like a stranger in her own body. She wore a custom emerald green velvet gown that hugged every curve. It accentuated the swell of her hips and the generous cleavage she usually hid. She looked beautiful. She looked dangerous.

Dominic was waiting for her at the base of the mansion steps. When he saw her, time seemed to stop. His jaw clenched, and a muscle ticked in his cheek. He walked up to her, ignoring the flashbulbs of the private syndicate photographers. He wrapped a heavy arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side.

“You are going to start a war looking like that,” he murmured in her ear, kissing the exposed skin of her neck.

“I’m terrified,” she whispered back.

“I am right here. You are mine. Walk with your head high.”

The ballroom was a sea of silk, diamonds, and blood money. Rosie felt the stares instantly. The men looked at her with a mix of curiosity and primal hunger. Dominic’s public claim made her forbidden fruit. The women, however, looked at her with unadulterated venom.

They hadn’t been sitting at Dominic’s VIP table for twenty minutes when the trouble started.

Camila Viti, the stunning, razor-thin daughter of the New York boss, sauntered over. She wore a dress made entirely of silver chains that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She had notoriously spent the last three years trying to get into Dominic’s bed.

“Dominic, darling,” Camila purred. She completely ignored Rosie as she draped a bony hand over Dominic’s shoulder. “We missed you at the Hamptons this summer.”

Dominic casually brushed her hand off his jacket like it was lint. “I was busy, Camila.”

Camila’s eyes finally slid to Rosie. She dragged her gaze up and down Rosie’s full figure with a theatrical look of disgust. “I see. Busy exploring alternative options. Tell me, Dominic, did you lose a bet, or is the Russo family buying meat by the pound now?”

The table fell dead silent. A few mob lieutenants nervously checked their exits. Rosie’s face burned. The old familiar shame rushed in, suffocating her. She looked down at her lap, fighting the urge to run out of the ballroom and hide in the dark.

Dominic didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply reached over, picked up a silver steak knife from the table, and drove it directly through the center of Camila’s expensive silk clutch. He pinned it to the mahogany table.

Camila shrieked, jumping back.

“Lorenzo,” Dominic said. His voice echoed in the sudden quiet of the room.

“Boss!” Lorenzo appeared instantly from the shadows.

“Call Carlo Viti. Tell him he just lost the Brooklyn docks. All shipments coming in tomorrow belong to us.”

Camila’s face went completely white. “Dominic, you can’t do that. My father will kill me. It was a joke.”

Dominic stood up slowly. He was a terrifying mountain of a man. He stepped toward Camila, forcing the mafia princess to cower backward until she hit a marble pillar. “You insulted the woman who holds my heart,” Dominic said loud enough for the entire ballroom to hear. “You insulted the future queen of this family. You just cost your father a territory worth ten million dollars a year. Camila, say another word about her ever again, and I’ll take his breathing privileges, too. Get out of my sight.”

Camila practically sprinted from the room in tears.

Dominic turned back to Rosie, extending his hand. The room watched in stunned silence as the ruthless boss gently helped her to her feet, kissed her knuckles, and led her to the dance floor.

“You didn’t have to start a mob war over my feelings,” Rosie whispered against his chest as they swayed to the music. Her heart was overflowing with a terrifying, chaotic love.

“I would burn the world to ashes if it kept you warm,” he replied smoothly.

—

Later that night, back at Dominic’s heavily guarded penthouse, Rosie couldn’t sleep.

The adrenaline, the wine, and the sheer magnitude of Dominic’s protection had her wired. She slipped out of bed, leaving Dominic sleeping soundly, his heavily tattooed back rising and falling. She walked softly down the hallway toward his private study, looking for a book to read until she felt tired.

The heavy oak door was slightly ajar. She stepped inside, turning on the small brass desk lamp. The desk was immaculate, save for a single red manila folder sitting dead center.

Rosie wasn’t a snoop. She survived in this world by minding her own business. But the label on the tab caught her eye. It read: *HARRISON C — ASSET ACQUISITION.*

Frowning, Rosie opened the folder.

Inside were dozens of photographs. There were pictures of her at her old college, pictures of her drinking coffee at her local café, and financial records of her mother’s medical debts. But what made the blood freeze in her veins was a document dated three years ago—long before she ever applied for the job at the casino.

It was a direct order bearing Dominic’s unmistakable signature.

*Subject: Harrison Manufacturing.* (This was Rosie Harrison’s father’s company.) *Directive: Bankrupt the company. Purchase all debt. Ensure target C. Harrison requires immediate high-paying employment within our infrastructure. Isolate and acquire.*

The paper fluttered from her trembling hands, hitting the mahogany floor. He hadn’t found her by accident. He hadn’t rescued her from Peter. Dominic Russo had destroyed her family’s entire life just to force her into his arms.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” A dark, sleep-ruffled voice said from the doorway.

Rosie spun around. Dominic stood there in the shadows, bathed in the dim amber light of the hallway. He was blocking the only exit, his eyes dark and utterly unrepentant. Cold dread pooled in Rosie’s stomach as she stared at the man she had just slept with. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t look ashamed. He looked like a predator who had finally locked the cage.

“You ruined my father,” Rosie whispered. Her voice trembled as she backed away from the desk. The heavy manila file was still scattered across the mahogany floor. “He had a stroke because of the bankruptcy, Dominic. He almost died. My mother had to take a second mortgage just to pay for his physical therapy. And you? You orchestrated all of it.”

Dominic stepped fully into the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a soft, final click. “I expedited the inevitable, Rosie. Your father was an abysmal businessman. His company was bleeding cash long before I took an interest in it.”

“So you crushed him to get to me?” she yelled. The tears finally spilled over her thick lashes. “I was a person, Dominic. I had a life. I was going to get my master’s degree. Instead, I had to drop out and take a sketchy auditing job in a mob casino just to keep my family from living on the streets.”

“And who do you think insured your resume made it to the top of Peter’s pile?” Dominic asked smoothly, closing the distance between them. He reached out to touch her arm, but Rosie flinched, slapping his hand away.

His eyes darkened, and a dangerous flicker of anger ignited in his irises. “Do not pull away from me.”

“Don’t touch me.” She sobbed, wrapping her arms around her full waist, suddenly feeling utterly exposed in her silk nightgown. “You are a monster. You orchestrated my poverty so you could swoop in and play savior. Why? Because I’m fat? Because you thought I’d be so desperate for male attention—so pathetic and grateful—that I’d just fall at your feet?”

Dominic moved so fast she didn’t have time to blink. He backed her hard against the bookshelves. His massive hands gripped her thick thighs, lifting her completely off the floor until they were eye to eye.

“I did it because I saw you three years ago at a bakery in Little Italy,” Dominic snarled, his composure finally cracking. “You were laughing. You were radiant. You took up space in a world full of starved, hollow women, and I knew in that exact second that you were going to be my wife. But you were civilian, Rosie. You were clean and untouchable. If I had simply courted you, you would have run from my world. So I brought my world to you. I stripped away your options until all roads led to me. It wasn’t because you are weak. It was because you are the only thing I have ever truly wanted.”

He dropped her back to her feet, his chest heaving. “Go back to bed, Rosie. We are flying to Sicily tomorrow to introduce you to the commission.”

Rosie didn’t argue. She knew better than to fight a cornered tiger. She nodded numbly, walking past him with her head down. But as she slipped back under the silk sheets, her mind was racing. She was a master auditor. She knew how to find loopholes. She knew how to disappear.

—

Rain lashed against the windshield of the stolen Honda Civic as Rosie sped down Lower Wacker Drive. The subterranean labyrinth of Chicago provided the perfect cover from Dominic’s vast network of men.

It had taken her exactly four days to orchestrate her escape.

She had waited until Dominic was locked in a sit-down with the Irish syndicates. Then she bypassed the penthouse security using the very bypass codes he had proudly taught her—and vanished. She didn’t go to the police. The Chicago PD was practically on Dominic’s payroll. Instead, she reached out to a contact she knew she could trust.

Sarah Jenkins was an old college roommate who was now a senior analyst at Kroll Incorporated, the premier corporate investigation and risk consulting firm in the world. Sarah had connections to high-powered attorneys, including the legendary Chicago litigator Thomas Demetrio.

Rosie pulled into a damp, dimly lit parking garage in the Loop. Sarah was waiting by a concrete pillar, clutching a thick waterproof briefcase.

“You look like hell, Rosie,” Sarah said, pulling her friend into a tight hug. She pulled back, her eyes wide as she took in Rosie’s pale face and shaking hands. “I pulled the files you asked for. I used Kroll’s back-channel servers. Dominic Russo won’t be able to trace the digital footprint.”

“Did you find the original debt ledgers for my dad’s company?” Rosie asked, ushering Sarah into the passenger seat of the Honda.

Sarah nodded, popping the briefcase open. “I did. And Rosie, it’s worse than you thought. Dominic didn’t just bankrupt your dad for fun.” Sarah pulled out a stack of documents. She pointed to a series of wire transfers highlighted in yellow. “Your dad wasn’t just losing money to bad investments. He was actively embezzling. And he wasn’t stealing from a bank. He was laundering money for the Volkov Bratva.”

Rosie’s blood ran completely cold. The Volkovs were the Russian syndicate that operated out of Brighton Beach. They were known for skinning their enemies alive.

“He owed them five million dollars,” Sarah whispered, her voice trembling. “Three years ago, the Russians found out. There are intercepted communications in the federal database. The Volkovs weren’t going to just kill your dad, Rosie. They were going to take you and your mother to recoup the debt in the underground trafficking rings.”

Rosie stared at the paper, the numbers blurring together as her breath hitched in her throat.

“Look at the date of the Russo acquisition,” Sarah urged, pointing to the bottom of the page.

It was the exact same day the Volkov deadline expired. Dominic hadn’t bankrupted her father to destroy him. He paid the Russians their five million dollars to buy her family’s lives.

“Dominic paid them off,” Rosie whispered. Her hands were shaking so violently she dropped the paper. “He bought the debt. He made it look like a brutal bankruptcy so the feds wouldn’t look too closely at a sudden payoff to the Russian mob. He ruined our reputation to save our lives.”

“And to own you,” Sarah reminded her gently. “He’s still a cartel boss, Rosie. He’s dangerous.”

—

Suddenly, the deafening shatter of glass ripped through the parking garage.

The Honda’s rear window exploded inward, raining safety glass over Rosie’s shoulders. “Get down!” Rosie screamed. She shoved Sarah under the dashboard just as a second bullet tore through the passenger headrest.

Three black SUVs screeched to a halt, blocking the garage exit. Armed men in heavy tactical gear poured out, their weapons raised. But they weren’t wearing the tailored Italian suits of the Russo Syndicate. They wore heavy leather jackets, their skin marked with the stark, brutal tattoos of the Russian Bratva.

The Volkovs had found her.

“Well, well.” A thick, heavily accented voice echoed through the concrete structure as a tall, scarred man stepped forward. He aimed a specialized submachine gun directly at the windshield. “Dominic Russo’s little pet. He paid a high price for you, malyshka. But he insulted our pack by forcing our hand in Chicago. We take you. We break Dominic.”

Rosie’s heart hammered against her ribs, but the paralyzing fear she expected didn’t come. Instead, a strange, burning clarity washed over her. She was Rosie Harrison. She was a woman who had survived corporate sabotage, poverty, and the terrifying obsession of the city’s most ruthless boss. She wasn’t going to die cowering in a Honda.

She kicked open her door and stepped out, standing tall. She didn’t try to hide her curves or shrink away. She squared her shoulders, presenting every inch of her full, commanding figure to the Russian killers.

“If you touch me,” Rosie said, her voice eerily calm, echoing off the concrete, “Dominic Russo will erase your entire bloodline from the face of the earth. You know who I am to him.”

The Russian laughed—a harsh, barking sound. “Dominic Russo is not here, little pig.”

“You sure about that?”

A voice rumbled from the shadows. It was a voice that commanded the very darkness. The lights in the parking garage suddenly cut out, plunging them into pitch blackness.

Gunfire erupted.

It was a deafening, strobing cacophony of violence. Rosie dropped to the ground, covering her ears as the distinct, heavy thud of suppressed automatic weapons echoed through the dark. Wet, gurgling screams followed the flashes of muzzle fire. It lasted less than thirty seconds.

When the emergency backup lights flickered on, the garage looked like a slaughterhouse. All twelve Russian operatives lay dead on the concrete. Standing in the center of the carnage, his custom suit speckled with blood, was Dominic. He held a smoking Sig Sauer in his right hand. Lorenzo and four other heavily armed capos materialized from the shadows behind him, securing the perimeter.

Dominic didn’t look at the bodies. His wild, frantic eyes locked onto Rosie. He dropped his weapon, ignoring syndicate protocol, and sprinted toward her. He fell to his knees on the glass-covered concrete, pulling her into a crushing, desperate embrace.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded. His large hands frantically checked her face, her shoulders, ran down her thick thighs to ensure she was whole. He was shaking. The untouchable, ruthless boss of the Chicago underworld was trembling like a child. “Tell me you aren’t bleeding, Rosie. Talk to me.”

“I’m okay.” She gasped, burying her face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of bergamot and gunpowder. “I’m okay, Dominic.”

He pulled back, his hands cupping her face. “You ran from me. You stupid, beautiful, reckless woman. I tore the city apart. Do you have any idea what they would have done to you?”

“I know.” Rosie said softly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Kroll document Sarah had given her. She pressed it against his chest. “I know about the Volkovs. I know about my father’s debt. I know you paid the five million to save us.”

Dominic looked at the paper, his jaw tightening. He didn’t offer excuses. He didn’t try to soften the blow.

“Your father was a dead man,” Dominic said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “I couldn’t let them take you. But I also couldn’t let you walk away. I am a selfish, ruthless man, Rosie. I don’t share. I don’t let go. I bankrupted him to keep you safe, and I brought you to my casino to keep you close. I would do it again a thousand times over.”

Rosie looked into his dark, obsessive eyes. She saw the madness there. She saw the violent, consuming possessiveness that would burn a city to the ground just to keep her warm. It was toxic. It was terrifying.

And it was exactly what she wanted.

For her entire life, Rosie had been told she was too much. Too big. Too loud. Too opinionated. Too fat for love, too fat for desire, too fat for the kind of devotion that made a man kill for her. But Dominic didn’t want her despite her size. He wanted her because of everything she was—every curve, every soft inch, every pound that had made other men look away.

“You’re a psychopath,” Rosie whispered. Her hands slid up his broad chest to wrap around his neck.

“I am whatever you need me to be,” he replied fiercely.

“I need you to never lie to me again,” she demanded. Her green eyes flashed with newfound authority. She wasn’t just an auditor anymore. She was the queen of the syndicate. “And I need you to teach me how to run the books for the entire Midwest territory. If I’m going to be bound to a monster, I’m going to be the one holding the leash.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across Dominic’s face. It was a genuine smile—one that transformed him from a terrifying mob boss into a devastatingly handsome king. He stood up, pulling Rosie with him. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms as if her weight was nothing but a blessing.

“As you command, mia regina,” he murmured.

He claimed her lips in a blistering, possessive kiss that tasted of victory and absolute surrender.

Lorenzo stepped forward politely, averting his eyes. “Boss, the cleanup crew is on the way. What do we tell the Volkov pakhan?”

Dominic broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Rosie’s. His thumb gently stroked the soft curve of her waist. He looked over his shoulder at his lieutenant, his eyes cold and dead.

“Send him the heads of his men,” Dominic ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority. “And tell him if he ever looks in the direction of Chicago again, my wife will personally audit his empire into ash.”

Rosie smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder as he carried her out of the garage.

She had walked into the darkness apologizing for her size, shrinking herself to fit into a world that told her she was too much. But she was walking out a titan. She was exactly the right size to rule the world.

—

Three months later, the penthouse study had become Rosie’s domain.

She sat at the head of the conference table—Dominic’s seat, until she had claimed it for herself—with ledgers spread before her like a general surveying a battlefield. The numbers danced under her fingertips, revealing truths that no one else could see.

Lorenzo stood in the corner, watching her with a mixture of respect and wariness. He had seen her catch a fifty-thousand-dollar discrepancy in under four minutes last week. He had watched her dismantle a rival family’s shipping operation with nothing but a laptop and a phone. The men had stopped joking about “the boss’s fat girlfriend” after she personally identified three traitors in their ranks using only payroll data and body language analysis.

Dominic walked in, fresh from a meeting with the commission. He looked tired, his tie loosened, his jaw tight. But when his eyes found Rosie, something in his face softened—a crack in the armor that only she was allowed to see.

“They approved the merger,” he said, dropping into the chair beside her. “But the New York families want a concession. They want visibility into our financials for the next six months.”

Rosie didn’t look up from her ledger. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“They don’t get visibility. They get a quarterly summary prepared by me, reviewed by my external auditors, and redacted for proprietary operations.” She finally lifted her gaze. “If they want to see our books, they can send their own auditor. And then I’ll find every single skeleton in their closets and use them to negotiate better terms.”

Dominic stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed—a genuine, surprised sound that made Lorenzo shift uncomfortably.

“What?” Rosie asked.

“I spent ten years building this empire,” Dominic said, shaking his head. “And in three months, you’ve made it run better than I ever did. The men are terrified of you. The commission is confused by you. And I”—he reached out and took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles—”am completely in love with you.”

Rosie’s cheeks flushed. Even now, after everything, she still blushed when he looked at her like that. “Flattery won’t get you out of the quarterly review. I need you to sign off on the new shipping protocols before Friday.”

“Demanding.”

“Watchful.” She squeezed his hand. “That’s what you hired me for.”

“I didn’t hire you.” He pulled her out of her chair and into his lap, his arms wrapping around her thick waist. “I stole you. There’s a difference.”

She snorted, but she didn’t pull away. She never pulled away anymore. The fear of being touched—of being seen—had faded under the relentless heat of his devotion. He touched her constantly now. His hands on her hips, her stomach, her thighs. He traced her stretch marks like they were constellations. He kissed the soft spots she had spent years hiding.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

“I’m admiring.” His thumb traced the curve of her hip through her silk blouse. “There’s a difference.”

“Did you just steal my line?”

“I stole your life. I think I’m allowed to steal your lines.”

She laughed—a real, full laugh that echoed through the penthouse. It was the sound of a woman who had stopped apologizing. The sound of a queen who knew exactly how much space she deserved to take up.

—

Six months after that, Dominic made good on his promise.

They were married in a small ceremony at the Ocenana estate—the same ballroom where Camila Viti had tried to humiliate her. But this time, no one dared to whisper. This time, Rosie walked down the aisle in a custom white gown that hugged every curve, her head high, her eyes locked on the man waiting for her at the altar.

Dominic watched her approach, and for the first time in his life, the ruthless mob boss had tears in his eyes.

“You’re crying,” Rosie whispered when she reached him.

“I’m not crying.” He blinked rapidly. “I have something in my eye.”

“It’s called a feeling, Dominic. You’ll get used to them.”

He laughed—a broken, joyful sound—and pulled her into his arms. The priest cleared his throat, but neither of them cared. They kissed before they were supposed to, before the vows were exchanged, before the rings were placed. They kissed like the world was ending and they were the only two people left in it.

When they finally pulled apart, the ballroom erupted in applause.

Lorenzo handed Dominic the ring—a massive emerald set in platinum, the exact shade of Rosie’s eyes. “You are the queen of this empire,” Dominic said, sliding it onto her finger. “And I am yours. Completely. Irrevocably. Until the day I die.”

“You ruined my father’s company,” Rosie replied, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “You orchestrated my poverty. You manipulated my entire life to force me into your arms.”

The room went silent. A few capos reached for their weapons.

Rosie smiled. “And I would audit every single one of you into ash if it meant I got to keep him.”

Dominic kissed her again, and the room erupted in cheers.

—

That night, after the guests had gone and the champagne had been drunk, Rosie stood on the terrace overlooking the city. The lights of Chicago sprawled beneath her—millions of lives, millions of secrets. Somewhere out there, the Volkovs were regrouping. Somewhere out there, rival families were plotting. Somewhere out there, danger was always waiting.

Dominic came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Regrets?” he asked.

“None.” She leaned back against him. “You?”

“I regret nothing except the time I wasted watching you from across the room when I could have been holding you.”

She turned in his arms, facing him. The moonlight caught the emerald on her finger, making it glow. “You’re still a monster, Dominic Russo.”

“I’m your monster,” he corrected.

She rose on her toes—she still had to rise on her toes, even after everything—and kissed him softly. “Yes,” she whispered against his lips. “You are.”

He lifted her, as he always did now, as if her weight was nothing. As if she was the most precious thing in his empire. He carried her inside, past the guards and the ledgers and the ghosts of the men he had killed, and he laid her down on the bed that had become theirs.

“You take up exactly the right amount of space,” he said, for the thousandth time.

And Rosie Harrison—now Rosie Russo—finally believed it.

—

One year later, the ledger on her desk held a new entry.

*Volkov Bratva. Remaining assets: $0. Status: Dissolved.*

Rosie traced the words with her fingertip, thinking about the five million dollars that had bought her family’s freedom. Thinking about the men who had tried to take her in that parking garage. Thinking about the empire she had helped build from the ashes of her father’s mistakes.

“You’re brooding.” Dominic appeared in the doorway of her study, a glass of bourbon in his hand. “I can always tell when you’re brooding. Your nose scrunches.”

“My nose does not scrunch.”

“It absolutely does. It’s adorable. Stop doing it immediately.”

She laughed and closed the ledger. “I’m not brooding. I’m planning.”

“Planning what?”

She stood up and walked toward him, her hips swaying, her new confidence radiating off her like heat. “The New York families are getting too comfortable. They think because we’ve been quiet, we’ve gone soft. I want to remind them why that’s a mistake.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Rosie took the bourbon from his hand, took a sip, and handed it back. “I have a list. Seventeen names. Every single one of them is skimming from their own families. I found the proof in their shipping manifests. We don’t need to start a war. We just need to send the evidence to the right people and watch them tear each other apart.”

Dominic stared at her for a long moment. Then he shook his head slowly. “You are terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes, it was.” She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Now come to bed. You have a meeting with the Irish at eight, and I need to review the security footage from the docks before I sleep.”

“You review security footage for fun now?”

“I review security footage for leverage. There’s a difference.”

He laughed and pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You destroyed my father’s company, manipulated my life, and dragged me into your criminal empire.” She smiled against his chest. “It’s the romantic gesture that keeps on giving.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I stayed.”

She was Rosie Harrison—size eighteen, master auditor, queen of the Chicago underworld. She took up space. She refused to apologize. And she was exactly the right size to rule the world.