She Crashed a Mafia Wedding—Then the Mafia Boss Whispered, You're Mine Now

The gunfight lasted less than four minutes.

Vincent’s enforcers were not mere bodyguards; they were elite military veterans trained for tactical urban warfare. Paired with Vincent’s own ruthless precision, the attackers were overwhelmed, six of them killed and the rest fleeing into the dark alleys of the harbor.

When Vincent returned to the car, he was drenched in rain, his tie gone, his white shirt stained with dirt and grease, but he was entirely unharmed.

He opened the door, reaching in to pull Maya out of the vehicle.

She scrambled into his arms, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his wet shoulder. She didn't care about the smoke, the smell of gunpowder, or the bodies on the pavement. She only cared that he was alive.

"He got away," Maya sobbed softly against his neck. "Marcus fled into the docks."

Vincent held her tightly against his chest, his big hand stroking her hair. "He won't get far. Dante’s team has locked down the entire harbor sector. Now... we finish this legally before we finish it with iron."

An hour later, they arrived at the private penthouse suite of the Grand Regency Hotel—the neutral territory where the Syndicate Council held its summits.

Before entering the grand boardroom, Vincent pulled Maya into a quiet, opulent dressing room. He retrieved a fresh charcoal suit coat from a garment bag brought by his assistant, while a female attendant quickly refreshed Maya’s dark blue silk dress and dried her hair.

When they were alone, Vincent stood in front of a mirror, adjusting his cuffs.

Maya walked up behind him, her reflection appearing beside his.

"Vincent," she said softly.

He turned around. "Yes?"

"Why are you doing all of this for me?" she asked, her voice filled with raw vulnerability. "You could have thrown me out last night. You could have handed me to Marcus or Don Moretti to keep your peace. Why risk your life in an alley for a girl you found on your floor?"

Vincent looked down at her for a long, heavy moment. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax—a formal Syndicate Immunity Contract.

"Because three years ago, Maya," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deep, raspy register, "my younger sister was trapped in a relationship with a man just like Marcus Hail. She was too terrified to ask for help. By the time I found out... it was too late. I buried her on a rainy Tuesday in April."

Maya’s heart broke. A tear slid down her cheek. "Vincent... I'm so sorry."

"When you ran into my ballroom, barefoot, bleeding, but holding your head high and refusing to let that bastard drag you back into the dark..." Vincent stepped closer, his large hands reaching out to gently frame her face, his thumbs wiping away her tears. "...I saw a fighter. I saw someone who deserved a champion. And then... I looked into your eyes, Maya, and I realized I couldn't let anyone else have you."

Maya’s breath hitched. "Vincent..."

"This contract makes you my legal wife under Syndicate Law," Vincent whispered, his eyes dropping to her lips. "It gives you total immunity, full access to my wealth, and the protection of my entire army. But I will not force you to sign it unless you want this. Unless you want me."

Maya didn't hesitate.

She reached up, grabbed the lapels of his suit coat, and pulled him down to her.

Their lips met in a fierce, desperate, electric kiss.

It wasn't a gentle kiss born of sympathy; it was a fiery collision of two bruised souls finding their anchor in the storm. Vincent let out a low growl, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against his broad, muscular body, lifting her slightly off her feet as his mouth claimed hers with absolute, possessive devotion.