I Slept With My Boyfriend’s Mafia Boss, Now My Family Thinks I Married a Nobody

The black-and-white printout felt heavy between my fingers.

I sat on the low stone wall outside the private clinic in Palermo, the warm Sicilian sun beating down on my bare arms. Through the linen fabric of my summer dress, my stomach looked completely flat. But the crisp ultrasound scan in my hands told a reality I had spent the last two months trying to ignore.

*Gestational age: 12 weeks, 2 days.*

Twelve weeks. Exactly seventy-two days since the night in the Las Vegas bunker.

A cold knot tightened in my throat. I hadn’t touched Mason in nearly five months before I left the country, and there had been no one else. Only the man with the dark, lethal eyes and the bullet wound against his ribs. The man whose shirt I had stolen and whose face still haunted my nightmares.

I folded the thermal paper, tucked it securely into the side pocket of my canvas bag, and stood up. I needed to finish my shift at the hospital and figure out how to rebuild my life.

I turned down the narrow cobblestone alley leading toward the tram station.

A shadow fell across the sunlit stones in front of me.

Two men stepped out from the archway of an abandoned courtyard. They wore dark utility jackets despite the Mediterranean heat. One of them had a jagged scar tracing down his jawline—the exact same scar I had seen under the flickering casino lights ten weeks ago when the senator's daughter collapsed.

"Look at that," the scarred man said in a harsh, accented rasp. "The little nurse took a vacation."

My heart leaped into my throat. I took a step back, my hand clutching my bag. "I don't know who you are."

"You saw my face in the hallway," he sneered, pulling a suppressed pistol from his waistband. "Boss said no loose ends."

I turned to run, but the second man grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into my skin like iron hooks. I kicked hard against his knee, thrashing with everything I had. The fabric of my dress tore along the left seam with a loud rip, exposing my thigh as I slammed my canvas bag against his face.

"Hold the bitch still!" the scarred man barked, raising his weapon.

A deafening roar shattered the quiet afternoon.

A black armored SUV barreled down the narrow alley, smashing into the stone wall and shaving off chunks of plaster before sliding to a halt inches from us.

The passenger door kicked open with violent force.

Gunshots cracked through the air. The man holding me dropped instantly to the cobblestones with two red blooms on his chest. Before the scarred gunman could aim, three rapid rounds tore through his torso, dropping him beside his partner.

A tall figure stepped out of the vehicle through the rising dust.

Roman.

He wore a tailored black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark trousers. His gaze locked onto me, sweeping over my torn dress and shaking hands with ruthless precision.

"Get in," he ordered.

I froze, terror and shock locking my joints. "You—"

He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed my wrist, pulled me past the fallen bodies, and hauled me into the back of the armored SUV. The heavy door slammed shut, locking with a solid, mechanical clunk.

"Drive," Roman commanded.

The driver slammed on the gas. The tires screeched against the slick stones, throwing me hard against the leather seat as the vehicle launched into the main boulevard.

"What are you doing here?" I gasped, trying to pull the torn edges of my dress together. "Who were those men?"

"The cleanup crew for the people who attacked my suite," Roman said, his voice deep, gravelly, and steady. "They tracked your flight logs. I got here first."

"How did they find me?"

"You're the only living witness who saw the shooter's face," he replied, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. "They don't leave witnesses."

Before I could process his words, the driver yanked the steering wheel hard to avoid an oncoming truck. The SUV banked violently into a sharp mountain turn.

The sudden shift tossed me across the wide leather seat.

I lost my footing completely and tumbled directly into Roman's lap, my knees straddling his thighs, my torn dress riding up to my hips. The solid warmth of his body hit me like a physical shock, instantly dragging my mind back to the locked utility locker in Las Vegas.

I stiffened, my hands braced against his broad chest.

Roman didn't grab me. He didn't pull me close or wrap his arms around my waist.

Instead, he raised both hands flat in the air, keeping his palms open and untouched by my skin. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle ticked beneath his stubble.

"Driver," Roman said through gritted teeth, his chest rising and falling beneath my palms. "Take the curves slower."

"Sorry, Boss," the driver muttered, steadying the vehicle.

I scrambled backward off him, my cheeks burning as I pressed myself flat against the opposite door. Roman lowered his hands, adjusting the cuff of his shirt without looking at me, though a dark patch of crimson was already blooming across his left bicep.

"You're bleeding," I said, my medical instincts momentarily cutting through the panic.

"A graze from their rear guard," he said flatly. "It's nothing."

Ten minutes later, the SUV pulled through heavy wrought-iron gates into a secluded stone villa nestled high in the hills above the coast. High concrete walls and armed sentries surrounded the perimeter.

Roman stepped out and gestured for me to follow. "Inside. Now."

He led me into a spacious study with marble floors and dark wood shelving. He pulled a heavy first aid kit from a lower cabinet and set it on the desk, then stripped off his black shirt.

The graze across his shoulder was deep, the edges ragged and bleeding freely down his arm.

"Clean it and wrap it," he said, taking a seat in a leather armchair.

My hands shook, but I opened the kit, soaked a sterile pad in antiseptic, and stepped between his legs to reach his shoulder. The sharp scent of alcohol filled the space between us. As I pressed the pad against the torn skin, he didn't flinch, his dark eyes tracking every movement of my face.

"Your hands are steady," he observed quietly.

"I'm a trauma nurse," I replied, keeping my voice clipped. "I don't fall apart over blood."

"You ran from Las Vegas like a ghost."

My hands paused for half a second before I secured the pressure bandage with medical tape. "I had a job assignment. I took it."

"You ran because of what happened between us."

"I'm done," I said, stepping back quickly and gathering the discarded wrappers. "You're patched up."

I turned toward the low sofa to grab my belongings. In my haste, the torn strap of my canvas bag caught on the edge of the carved wooden desk. The worn seam gave way with a sharp rip.

The contents spilled across the polished marble floor.

Keys, pens, medical tape, and a small stack of papers scattered around my feet.

And right in the center of the floor, face up under the warm chandelier light, lay the glossy thermal ultrasound strip.

I froze.

Roman stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the tiles. He walked over, bent down, and picked up the photograph before I could reach it.

"Give that back," I said, my voice cracking.

He didn't hand it over. His thumb traced the bold black text stamped at the top of the sheet.

*Patient: Lena Brooks.*

*Gestational Age: 12 Weeks, 2 Days.*

The air in the room seemed to vanish.

Roman’s dark eyes lifted from the paper, fixing on me with an intensity that pinned me to the floor. His mind was working fast, calculating every single day, every single hour since the night in the bunker.

"Twelve weeks," Roman said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "That puts conception at about ten weeks ago. The exact night you were in my safe room."

I gripped the hem of my ruined dress, my pulse deafening in my ears.

He took a slow step toward me, towering over me until his shadow blocked out the room. "Is that child mine, Lena?"

Before I could force a word past my lips, the heavy double doors of the study swung open.

Marco stepped into the room, holding up a secure satellite phone.

"Boss, sorry to interrupt," Marco said urgently. "Mason Reed is calling on the private line. He says it's an emergency regarding the transport routes."

The name hit the room like an explosion.

My eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock. "Mason?"

Roman’s eyes narrowed into razor-sharp slits, his gaze whipping from the ultrasound photo back to my face.

"You know him?" Roman demanded, his voice dangerously quiet.

I stared at him, my voice barely a whisper. "He’s my boyfriend."