Sold to My Ex's Mafia Godfather

I spent two years fixing Ethan Ward's emergencies because I thought loving him meant standing beside him when money got tight.

On a private yacht, I learned what he thought loving me meant.

He had traded me to the men covering the money he stole.

I ran barefoot through the service corridor with my dress torn and his sedative still burning through my veins.

Dante Russo found me before they did.

He put one man on the floor, wrapped his jacket around me, and made a doctor wait until I was completely clearheaded.

Hours later, I was the one who kissed him first.

He stopped anyway and asked me to say what I wanted.

I told him not to leave.

Two months later, I was pregnant, framed as a thief, and standing in front of the same man while Ethan called me a liar.

Then I heard the recording Ethan thought had been erased.

"She was supposed to pay my debt."

"Now she's carrying Dante's child."

"Good. The baby gives us leverage."

"Then take her before the Godfather realizes who sold him the bait.

****

"You're just a nurse, Mia. Stop asking questions." Ethan shoved the champagne flute into my hand hard enough to bruise my knuckles.

The boyfriend I had supported for two years kept scanning the yacht's lower deck instead of looking at me.

"You said this was for my twenty-second birthday."

"It is." He checked his watch. "Drink your champagne and wait here."

The first swallow had already been a mistake. A heavy fog pressed behind my eyes, too sudden to be alcohol. I set the glass on a tray and headed toward the service corridor, pretending I only needed the restroom.

The walls tilted. I caught the wood paneling and forced myself to keep moving.

Voices drifted through a cracked door ahead.

"She's clean?" a man asked.

"No record. No family who matters," Ethan replied. "Take her and we're even."

My stomach turned.

The late-night calls. The casino stories. The missing cash. The way Ethan had insisted I wear the silver dress he bought because his "clients" liked a polished look.

He had not brought me to a birthday party.

He had brought me as payment.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. The pain cut through the haze. Whatever he had put in my drink was fast-acting, and I did not have time to identify it.

I slipped into a storage room and locked the door. Cold water from a utility sink helped, but not enough. My fingers were slow when I pulled out my phone.

No signal.

Of course.

I heard footsteps in the corridor.

"She's not at the bar."

"Check the cabins."

I shoved the phone into my purse and spotted a narrow metal staircase beside the kitchen access. When the footsteps moved away, I ran.

Cold ocean air hit me the second I burst onto the upper deck.

Two men in dark suits blocked the rail.

"Where do you think you're going?" The taller one grabbed my wrist.

I twisted hard, but his grip only tightened. The strap of my dress tore.

"Get off me!"

His partner laughed. "Ethan can't even keep his girl under control."

A gunshot cracked across the water.

The man holding me screamed. Blood sprayed from the back of his hand, and his fingers opened.

I stumbled into the railing.

A stranger stepped out from the shadow of the bridge. Black suit. Dark hair. No wasted movement. His pistol remained trained on the men in front of me.

"She said no," he said.

The bleeding guard cursed and reached for his weapon.

"Don't."

The single word stopped him.

I did not wait to decide whether the stranger was a rescuer or another buyer. A broken champagne bottle glittered beside the deck chair. I snatched it up and pressed the jagged edge beneath my jaw.

"Nobody comes closer."

The stranger lowered his gun first.

"Back away," he told the guards.

They obeyed.

That frightened me more than the weapon.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He took one step into the deck light. A dark stain was spreading beneath the white shirt at his ribs.

"Someone who just ruined a profitable evening."

"You're bleeding."

"It can wait."

My training took over before my judgment did. I lowered the bottle and crossed the space between us. When I pressed my palm against his side, he sucked in a breath.

"Not a through-and-through," I said. "But you're still bleeding. Sit down before you make it worse."

His gaze dropped to my hand, then returned to my face.

Instead of arguing, he passed his pistol to a younger man coming up the stairs.

"Nico. Put that away."

The younger man obeyed.

The stranger looked at me. "Police, hospital, or off this boat. Your choice."

That was the first choice anyone had offered me all night.

I chose off the boat.

Four hours later, a private physician closed his bag in a hotel suite overlooking the harbor.

"Her vitals are stable," he told the stranger. "The sedative is clearing. No alcohol, no driving, and no more medication tonight unless a doctor approves it."

"I heard you," I said.

The physician gave me a tired smile and left.

I sat on the edge of the king-size bed in my torn dress. The stranger stood near the window, one hand braced against the frame.

I reached for my purse. "I should go."

"You can barely stand."

"I can stand well enough."

He turned, and fresh blood had already soaked through the temporary dressing at his ribs.

I stared at it. "Apparently one of us can't follow medical instructions."

His mouth almost moved.

I dropped my purse, opened the first-aid kit the doctor had left behind, and pointed to the bed. "Sit."

He raised an eyebrow, but he sat.

"Shirt off."

He unbuttoned it without comment. The wound was shallow, likely a graze, but movement had reopened it.

I peeled away the wet gauze. "You need proper closure and a follow-up tomorrow."

"You're very bossy for someone I just met."

"I'm very irritated for someone who almost got sold."

That ended the joke.

He looked away first.

I cleaned the wound and taped fresh gauze into place. My fingers brushed the hard line of his abdomen, and his muscles tightened under my hand.

"Are you looking at the injury," he asked, "or at me?"

Heat climbed into my face. "You are remarkably narcissistic for a man leaking blood onto hotel sheets."

For the first time, a faint smile appeared.

My phone buzzed inside my purse.

Ethan.

Be good on the boat. Don't make this harder for me.

I read the message twice.

Then I kicked the purse beneath the bed.

The stranger did not ask what it said. He did not reach for me. He stayed seated, hands flat on the mattress, leaving the path to the door open.

"Do you want another room?" he asked. "Nico can book one down the hall."

I stared at him.

Ethan had spent two years making my choices sound like favors he granted me. This man had pointed a gun at two armed men, yet he was still waiting for my answer.

My hands had finally stopped shaking.

I stepped between his knees, wrapped my fingers around the back of his neck, and kissed him.

He froze.

Then his hand settled at my waist and the kiss deepened, hot enough to erase the taste of panic from my mouth.

A second later, he pulled back.

"Wait." His voice had gone rough. "Are you fully awake?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what you're asking for?"

I looked at the glass of water on the nightstand, the bandage I had just changed, and the open path to the door.

Then I met his eyes.

"Lock the door."