The Mafia Boss Begged a Heart Surgeon to Save His Daughter... But He Never Expected to Fall in Love THE SURGEON REFUSED THE MAFIA BOSS’S MONEY—THEN SHE FOUND OLD SCARS ON HIS DYING DAUGHTER

Midnight at the Mancini estate outside New Orleans felt like stepping into an old gothic novel. Spanish moss hung heavy from the sprawling live oaks, dripping into the dark, stagnant water of the private marshland. Wrought-iron gates stood open, flanked by stone lions that looked blind in the moonlight.

Salvatore had insisted on moving Gia and Iris to his secure compound forty miles outside the city, away from the glass walls of Saint Jude’s where security was impossible to maintain against professional operatives.

Inside the sprawling plantation-style mansion, amber light spilled across hardwood floors and antique mahogany bookshelves. Marco Greco stood by the massive stone fireplace, sliding fresh magazines into a submachine gun with clinical efficiency.

“They’re moving through the north treeline,” Marco reported without looking up. “Three vehicles. No transponders. Local authorities won't touch this sector tonight.”

Salvatore stood at the end of the long oak dining table, a tactical map spread out across the polished wood. He wore a heavy black tactical vest over a dark turtleneck, his Springfield pistol holstered neatly at his hip. He looked like an ancient warlord preparing for a siege.

Upstairs, in a fortified master suite overlooking the inner courtyard, Iris sat beside the bed where Gia was sleeping peacefully, lulled by a mild sedative.

The door opened quietly, and Salvatore stepped into the room. He had removed his tactical vest, leaving only his dark shirt, though the tension in his broad shoulders remained coiled like spring steel.

“She’s asleep,” Iris said softly, not looking up from the book she was holding.

“The guards on the perimeter are in position,” Salvatore said, walking over to stand beside her chair. He looked down at her with an expression that defied every rule of the dangerous world he inhabited. “You shouldn't be here, Iris. You should have taken the car to the safehouse in Baton Rouge like I asked.”

Iris finally closed the book, set it on the nightstand, and stood up to face him. She was only five-foot-four, but she stood tall, looking straight into his dark eyes.

“I told you once before, Salvatore: I don't run,” she said steadily. “Not from disease, and not from men with guns.”

“This isn’t a hospital operating room where people follow rules,” Salvatore said, his voice rising with frustration and desperate affection. “These men don't care about collateral damage. If they breach this house—”

“Then we face it together,” Iris interrupted, taking a step closer until her hand brushed against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thud of his heart beneath the cotton shirt. “You think you have to carry every burden, fight every war, and bleed by yourself so everyone else can stay safe. But look at me, Salvatore. I chose to be here.”

Salvatore stared at her, his breath catching in his throat. The cold, untouchable king of New Orleans dissolved entirely in that moment. With a low, ragged sound, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping his strong hands around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Iris gasped softly, then melted against him, wrapping her arms around his broad back, holding him as tightly as he held her. The scent of rain, cedar, and gunpowder surrounded her, and for the first time in her life, she felt completely, unshakably safe inside the arms of the most dangerous man alive.

“I love you,” Salvatore whispered against her skin, the words slipping out of him like a secret he had guarded for a thousand years. “God help me, Iris... I never expected to feel this again.”