I wore ivory to the courthouse.
Not because it was romantic.
Because it was the only dress in my closet that didn’t remind me of Malcolm Pryce.
Dominic arrived in black.
Of course he did.
Margaret Sloan stood beside me as my attorney and witness. Dominic brought his longtime lieutenant, Gabriel Moretti, a broad-shouldered man in his forties who rarely smiled but had developed the unnerving habit of checking every window before sitting down.
Nolan did not come.
I hadn’t invited him.
At 10:16 on a cold Thursday morning, a clerk verified our identification.
At 10:31, a judge asked whether I entered the marriage willingly.
Dominic looked at me.
Not at the judge.
At me.
Waiting.
I heard Malcolm’s voice in my memory.
Three weeks. You’ll have to get used to certain things.
Then Nolan’s.
We don’t have a choice.
I lifted my chin.
“Yes.”
The judge turned to Dominic.
“Yes,” he said before the question was finished.
At 10:38, I became Evelyn Vale.
It should have felt ridiculous.
Temporary.
Administrative.
Instead, when Dominic slid a simple platinum band onto my finger, my heart pounded so hard I wondered whether Margaret could hear it.
His fingers were warm.
He didn’t hold my hand longer than necessary.
That bothered me more than it should have.
When we stepped outside, six black vehicles waited at the curb.
“So subtle,” I muttered.
Dominic opened the passenger door of the center SUV.
“You married me for my restraint.”
“I married you for your debt restructuring.”
“That was going to be my second guess.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Dominic looked genuinely startled.
Then his expression softened.
It lasted only a second.
The moment shattered when Gabriel approached.
“Problem.”
Dominic’s entire body changed.
“What?”
“Someone photographed them leaving.”
“Press?”
“Unknown.”
Dominic looked toward the rooftops.
“Get her inside.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t appreciate being discussed like luggage.”
Dominic turned to me.
“Someone was waiting for us.”
“Malcolm?”
“Possibly.”
“And you think a car protects me?”
“No.”
“Then what does?”
His gaze hardened.
“Me.”
I should have hated the answer.
Instead, some primitive part of me believed it.
We didn’t return to Hart House.
Dominic took me to a townhouse on Beacon Hill.
From the outside, it looked like any beautifully restored Boston residence—brick facade, black shutters, brass numbers.
Inside, it was another world.
Security glass.
Cameras.
Hidden doors.
Three men downstairs.
Two women working in the kitchen.
No extravagance beyond what was practical.
“This is where you live?” I asked.
“One of the places.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It means I own more than one house.”
“I understood the sentence.”
He showed me upstairs.
My room occupied the entire rear corner.
A cream sofa sat near tall windows. Fresh flowers stood on a side table. My suitcase had already arrived.
I opened the closet.
My clothes hung neatly inside.
I turned.
“You moved me?”
“Your attorney supervised.”
“Of course she did.”
“Margaret frightens my men more than I do.”
“That makes me like her more.”
Dominic nodded toward another door.
“Bathroom.”
I stared at him.
He realized it at the same time.
“No shared shower.”
“Excellent.”
“Unless you get lost again.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The certainty in his voice irritated me.
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
His humor disappeared.
“You’re right.”
The immediate correction surprised me.
“I’ll be downstairs.”
“Dominic.”
He stopped.
“What happens now?”
“Legally? Pryce’s position weakens. Financially, my people complete the debt purchase. Hart Atlantic makes payroll tomorrow.”
Relief hit so suddenly I had to sit down.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Four hundred employees?”
“Yes.”
I covered my mouth.
For two days, those workers had lived inside my head.
People whose names I didn’t know.
Mortgages.
Kids.
Medical bills.
College tuition.
Lives my brother had reduced to numbers because he was desperate.
“They won’t lose their jobs?”
“Not because of tomorrow’s payroll.”
I looked at Dominic.
“Thank you.”
His expression tightened strangely.
“You don’t owe me gratitude.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You married me.”
“For protection.”
“And I got something too.”
“What?”
“Pryce angry.”
I stared.
“That’s genuinely part of your motivation?”
“More than I should admit.”
I laughed again.
And again Dominic looked at me like the sound had caught him by surprise.
That afternoon, news of our marriage spread through Boston.
By five, society pages were calling it the shock wedding of the year.
By six, television commentators had connected Dominic’s name to every rumor ever whispered about organized crime in New England.
By seven, my phone had 214 missed calls.
I turned it off.
At eight, Malcolm Pryce sent flowers.
White roses.
Exactly two dozen.
A card rested between them.
You made the wrong choice.
Dominic read the note once.
Then he handed the flowers to Gabriel.
“Burn them.”
“That seems dramatic,” I said.
“They came through security.”
My amusement disappeared.
“What?”
“Someone knew where you were.”
I looked at the roses.
“How?”
“We’re finding out.”
“Could Nolan know?”
“Yes.”
My stomach sank.
Dominic noticed.
“That doesn’t mean he told Pryce.”
“But it means he could have.”
“Yes.”
I hated his honesty.
At dinner, neither of us spoke much.
Dominic ate grilled fish and vegetables.
I expected steak.
Apparently everything I knew about mafia bosses came from movies and whispered gossip.
“You keep staring at my plate.”
“I thought you’d eat something more threatening.”
He looked at the broccoli.
“It has a dark history.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Who are you?”
“Tonight?”
“Generally.”
He leaned back.
“That’s a dangerous question.”
“I married you. I think I’m entitled to basic information.”
“You know what Boston says.”
“I know what wealthy people say after three martinis.”
“Sometimes they’re right.”
“Have you killed people?”
Silence.
I hadn’t planned to ask.
Dominic set down his fork.
“If I answer, do you actually want the truth?”
My mouth went dry.
“Yes.”
“I have done things your father would not have approved of.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the one I’m giving.”
“So the rumors—”
“Some are true.”
The room felt colder.
“Are you dangerous to me?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“Would you hurt me?”
“No.”
“Even if I betray you?”
His gaze sharpened.
“If you betray me, I’ll ask why.”
“That’s it?”
“Depends on the answer.”
I stared.
Then he added quietly, “I don’t hurt women.”
There was something final in the statement.
A boundary forged somewhere painful.
I didn’t ask.
After dinner, he showed me the security system.
“Your bedroom locks from inside.”
“Against your own people?”
“Against everyone.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me.”
That sentence followed me upstairs.
At midnight, I still couldn’t sleep.
I walked into the hallway.
A light shone beneath the library door.
Dominic sat inside, reading.
This time not in my father’s chair.
His own.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping today exhausted you.”
“It did.”
“Then?”
“My brain is rude.”
He closed the book.
“Come in.”
I noticed two glasses on a tray.
One contained amber liquid.
The other was water.
“You don’t drink much,” I said.
“Not when I’m responsible for other people.”
“Were you always like this?”
“No.”
I sat across from him.
“What happened?”
He studied me.
Then, unexpectedly, answered.
“My sister died.”
The air left the room.
“I’m sorry.”
“She was twenty-one.”
“What happened?”
“Wrong place. Wrong man.”
His jaw tightened.
“I had enemies by then. One decided hurting her would hurt me.”
My chest ached.
“Did you find him?”
“Yes.”
The single word ended the subject.
Now I understood the locks.
The guards.
The windows.
Dominic did not protect people because he was naturally controlling.
He protected them because once, he had failed.
“I’m not your sister,” I said gently.
“I know.”
“You can’t control everything around me.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to try anyway.”
“Yes.”
I smiled faintly.
He did too.
For a moment, the dangerous man disappeared.
Then his phone rang.
Gabriel.
Dominic answered.
“What?”
His face changed.
“When?”
A pause.
“Don’t touch anything. I’m coming.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“Hart Atlantic.”
My stomach dropped.
“What about it?”
“Someone broke into your father’s office.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“We don’t know.”
I stood.
“I’m going.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“It may be a trap.”
“My father’s office.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
I grabbed my coat.
“I spent half my childhood under that desk drawing pictures while he worked. If someone went through his things because of me, I’m going.”
Dominic stared.
I expected an argument.
Instead he reached for his own coat.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“You’re going.”
Suspicion rose.
“That easily?”
“No.”
He opened the door.
“You’re going with six armed men.”
“Of course I am.”
At Hart Atlantic headquarters, police already filled the lobby.
The break-in had been precise.
No computers missing.
No cash.
No random vandalism.
Only my father’s office.
Drawers had been emptied.
Books pulled from shelves.
The family photographs smashed.
I knelt beside one frame.
Dad and me at seventeen, both laughing on a dock in Cape Cod.
The glass was cracked across his face.
I touched it.
Dominic crouched beside me.
“They were looking for something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Nolan appeared in the doorway.
I stood immediately.
“What are you doing here?”
“I run the company.”
“For now.”
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
He flinched.
Good.
Dominic’s attention moved to the desk.
One drawer had been ripped completely free.
“What did Henry keep here?” he asked.
Nolan shrugged.
“Old contracts. Personal papers.”
“Anything related to Pryce?”
“I don’t know.”
I suddenly remembered something.
“When I was little, Dad had a hiding place.”
Both men looked at me.
“Where?” Dominic asked.
I walked to the bookshelf.
Most of the books were legal references and shipping manuals.
I reached for an old leather copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
Dad used to joke that no thief would ever steal a book that thick.
Behind it was wood paneling.
I pressed the corner.
Nothing.
Then remembered.
Three taps.
One long press.
The panel clicked.
Nolan whispered, “What the hell?”
Inside lay a small envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Evelyn.
My knees nearly gave way.
I recognized Dad’s handwriting instantly.
Dominic stepped back.
“This is yours.”
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a key.
And one sentence.
If Nolan ever tells you Hart Atlantic is lost, find locker 317 at South Station before you believe him.
Nolan went completely white.
I looked at Dominic.
“What is locker 317?”
“I don’t know.”
Behind us, one of Dominic’s men suddenly shouted.
“Boss!”
Glass exploded.
Dominic hit me before I heard the gunshot.
Not a punch.
His entire body slammed into mine, driving us behind the heavy desk.
Another shot shattered the window.
People screamed.
Dominic covered my head with one arm.
His other hand reached beneath his jacket.
“Stay down.”
My ears rang.
“Nolan!”
“I’m here!”
He was behind the sofa.
Dominic looked toward the broken window.
Then at the envelope still clenched in my hand.
His face turned terrifyingly calm.
“They weren’t here for old contracts.”
My breathing came in broken gasps.
“They were looking for this.”
Dominic met my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Then what did my father hide?”
His arm tightened around me as another bullet struck the far wall.
“I don’t know yet.”
Then his gaze dropped to my wedding ring.
“But whatever it is, Malcolm Pryce is willing to kill for it.”