I Hid Under a Cold-Hearted Mafia Boss's Table to Escape My Abusive Ex—Then He Stood Up, Broke His Bones, and Made Me His Fake Bride with a Million-Dollar Bounty on My Head

By eight in the morning, Khloe’s quiet sanctuary had been transformed into a whirlwind of high-fashion chaos.

A team of four stylists, led by a sharp-tongued French woman named Madame Laurent, arrived with three rolling racks of haute couture gowns, tailored silk pantsuits, cashmere overcoats, and dozens of designer shoe boxes.

“Mon Dieu, look at this waistline!” Madame Laurent gasped, measuring Khloe’s ribs with a silk tape. “She has been living on toast and air! But the bone structure... exquisite! The collarbones are divine!”

For three exhausting hours, Khloe was poked, pinned, draped in emerald silk, fitted into midnight-blue velvet, and taught how to walk in four-inch Christian Louboutin heels without wobbling. A makeup artist smoothed golden foundation over her pale cheeks, defined her hazel eyes with smoky charcoal liner, and painted her lips in a deep, defiant crimson.

When they finally stepped aside, Khloe looked at herself in the full-length gilded mirror and gasped.

The woman staring back was not the terrified, shivering girl who had crawled into an alley puddle. She was wearing an ivory wool dress that hugged her curves with regal modesty, a diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist, and the massive Varga emerald glittering on her left hand. Her dark brown hair fell in glossy, Hollywood waves over her bare shoulders.

“Perfection,” Madame Laurent declared, snapping her fingers. “A queen fit for a king.”

The double doors of the suite swung open, and Dante stepped into the room.

He stopped in his tracks.

For three long seconds, his impenetrable mask slipped. His dark eyes widened slightly as he took in her transformation, lingering on the sweep of her throat and the curve of her waist. A subtle, dangerous heat flared in his gaze before he forced his features back into cold granite.

“Leave us,” Dante ordered the styling crew.

The stylists gathered their kits and vanished within seconds, bowing their heads as they passed him.

Dante walked toward her, his custom charcoal three-piece suit matching the solemn gravity of the morning. He held a black leather document folder in his left hand.

“You clean up well, little mouse,” he murmured, stopping three feet away.

Khloe lifted her chin, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “I told you I wasn't helpless, Mr. Varga. I just needed a chance to breathe.”

“Good. Because tonight, breathing will be a luxury.” He opened the folder and handed her a blue laminated security badge alongside a guest roster. “Tonight is the Winter Solstice Gala at the Rainier Club. Every major boss, corrupt senator, and syndicate lieutenant on the West Coast will be present. Including Marco Falcone.”

Khloe’s heart gave a nervous flutter. “Falcone? The one who wants your seat?”

“The very same,” Dante said, his jaw setting hard. “He believes I am vulnerable. He expects me to appear alone so he can call for a vote of no confidence based on the succession bylaws. When I walk in with you on my arm, wearing my grandmother’s heirloom ring, his entire offensive falls apart.”

“And what do I say if he talks to me?”

Dante reached out, his large, warm hand lightly brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were rough, calloused from years of violence, yet his touch was surprisingly gentle. Khloe’s pulse spiked at the contact.

“You say nothing about your past,” he instructed softly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You are the daughter of an old friend from the East Coast. We have been courting in private for a year. You smile, you hold my arm, and if anyone disrespects you by so much as a glance, you look at me.”

“And then?”

“And then I handle it,” Dante replied with a grim, final smile.

At that moment, the double doors clicked open again, and Paulie stepped into the foyer. His face was grim.

“Boss,” Paulie said quietly. “We have a complication.”

Dante’s posture went rigid. “Speak.”

“Jared Vance was discharged from Harborview Medical an hour ago,” Paulie reported, lowering his voice. “His uncle pulled some strings with the county prosecutor. But that’s not all. A black sedan with California plates picked him up from the hospital curb. The plates trace back to a shell company owned by Marco Falcone.”

A heavy, dangerous silence settled over the room. Dante didn't flinch, but the air around him grew instantly colder.

“Falcone is picking up my discarded trash,” Dante mused, his voice dangerously soft. “He thinks he can use Vance’s vendetta against me.”

Khloe took an involuntary step forward, her face turning pale despite the makeup. “Jared knows what I look like. He knows I worked at the dry cleaners. If Falcone brings him to that gala tonight—”

“He won’t dare bring that crippled dog through the front doors of the Rainier Club,” Dante interrupted, his voice like iron. He turned to Khloe, placing both hands firmly on her shoulders. The heat of his palms burned through the ivory wool of her dress.

“Listen to me, Khloe. You are under my roof, under my name, and under my protection. Marco Falcone and Jared Vance could combine every gun they have in this state, and they still wouldn't touch a single hair on your head. Do you trust me?”

Khloe looked into those deep, scarred obsidian eyes. For the first time in two years, the suffocating knot of panic in her chest began to dissolve, replaced by a fierce, unfamiliar warmth.