“No One Will Save You,” Her Ex-Husband Warned—Then The Mafia Boss Heard Every Word

The private medical wing of Roman’s Hudson estate smelled of antiseptic and fresh linen.

The chaos of the St. Regis attack had been locked behind heavy security gates, but the tension followed them home like a persistent ghost.

Roman sat on the edge of an examination table, his tuxedo jacket and shirt discarded on the floor, leaving his broad, muscular torso bare under the bright halogen lights. Dark, intricate ink—a rampant dragon coiling around ancient Latin scripture—covered his ribs and shoulders, crisscrossed by old scars that told stories of a hundred forgotten wars.

A fresh gash along his left forearm was bleeding steadily, the result of a falling crystal shard from the shattered chandelier.

The estate doctor, an elderly man with trembling hands, reached for the suture kit, but Roman waved him off with an impatient growl.

“Leave the room, Henry,” Roman commanded flatly.

“Boss, the wound requires six stitches to close properly—”

“I said get out,” Roman repeated, his gray eyes flashing danger.

Dr. Henry swallowed hard, set the antiseptic, needle, and thread on the stainless steel tray, and hurried out of the room without looking back.

Vivienne, who had been standing silently by the door with a towel wrapped around her shoulders over her ruined emerald gown, stepped forward.

“You’re an impossible patient,” she said softly, picking up the curved needle and thread from the sterile tray.

Roman looked at her, his hardened expression softening just a fraction. “You know how to stitch?”

“My grandfather was a surgeon before he went into commercial real estate,” Vivienne replied, pulling a pair of latex gloves over her slender fingers. “He made sure I knew basic trauma care when we went hunting in the Adirondacks. Sit still.”

She pulled a rolling stool close to him, pouring antiseptic over a clean gauze pad.

When she pressed the gauze against the deep cut on his arm, Roman didn't even flinch. His breath remained slow and even, his intense gaze locked onto her face as she leaned in close.

“Your hands aren't shaking anymore,” he noted softly, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room.

“They shook after I shot that man,” Vivienne admitted, threading the needle with clinical precision. “I thought I’d feel guilty. I thought I’d throw up or fall to pieces. But when I looked at him on the floor... all I could think was that if I hadn't pulled that trigger, he would have killed me. Or he would have used me to kill you.”

She pierced the skin, drawing the suture through with practiced grace.

Roman watched her with a mixture of reverence and ravenous hunger.

“You took a life to protect this house, Vivienne,” Roman said, his uninjured hand reaching out to touch the soft skin of her bare neck, his fingers warm and steady. “In my world, that makes you royalty. Not a hostage. Not a liability.”

Vivienne paused, her green eyes lifting to meet his.

“Elena told me I’m a target,” she whispered. “She told me Nathan’s eighteen-million-dollar debt was inherited by anyone who stands with me.”

“Elena speaks for the ledger,” Roman said dismissively, his thumb tracing the curve of Vivienne’s jawline, tilting her head up toward his. “I speak for the city. I don't give a damn about eighteen million dollars. I could burn eighteen million on the street corner tomorrow and not lose an hour of sleep.”

“Then what do you care about, Roman?”

Roman leaned forward until their lips were millimeters apart. The scent of him—leather, blood, and masculine heat—made Vivienne’s head spin.

“I care about what’s mine,” Roman growled against her lips. “Nathan took what was yours and threw it in the dirt. He tried to break something magnificent. But you aren't broken, Vivienne. You survived him. And now, you belong in a kingdom, not a cage.”

Vivienne tied off the final knot on his stitches with a sharp snip of the scissors.

She dropped the tools onto the metal tray, the clatter echoing in the sterile room. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her hands resting against his warm, bare chest, feeling the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath her palms.

“Nathan is out,” she reminded him, her voice trembling slightly with urgency. “Whoever staged that ambush at the St. Regis, they did it to distract us while they freed him. Why would anyone want Nathan? He’s worthless.”

“Nathan is an accountant, Vivienne,” Roman said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “He was worthless as a fighter, but he kept the financial records for Castiglione’s offshore shadow accounts. If someone pulled him out of federal custody, it’s not because they love him. It’s because Nathan has a ledger that can bring down half the Council.”

Roman stood up, towering over her, his presence utterly dominating the room.