I Kissed a Stranger for $50—He Turned Out to Be the City's Deadliest Mafia Boss

The drive was a blur of neon lights and smudged raindrops streaking across the bulletproof glass. Mave sat pressed against the opposite passenger door, clutching the crystal tumbler of whiskey with both hands to stop them from shaking. She hadn't taken a sip. The smell of the alcohol brought back the suffocating memory of Ali’s Pub—the sticky floors, Khloe’s drunken dare, and the exact moment her ordinary, miserable life had derailed into a high-speed nightmare.

Beside her, Rowan Mercer was a study in terrifying tranquility. He was reviewing a tablet, the soft blue light illuminating the sharp, ruthless angles of his jaw. He hadn't asked if she was okay. He hadn't flinched when the bullet shattered the brick wall inches from her skull. To him, this was just Tuesday night.

"Where are we going?" Mave finally managed to croak, her voice raspy.

"My residence," Rowan replied without looking up from his screen. "The apartment on 4th Street is compromised. My men are currently scrubbing it. Your landlord will receive an anonymous wire transfer tomorrow covering your broken door, your back rent, and a six-month termination fee. As far as the public record is concerned, Mave Sullivan abruptly moved to Europe to pursue culinary arts."

"You... you erased my life?" Mave gasped, a fresh wave of panic cresting in her chest. "Just like that? You can't do that! I have a job! I have friends!"

Rowan finally set the tablet down and turned his head. The absolute void in his dark eyes silenced her instantly.

"I saved your life," he corrected, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "That man in your apartment was Viktor Volkov’s chief interrogator. If I hadn't 'erased your life', he would have dragged you to a basement in the meatpacking district and peeled your skin off in strips until you told him everything you know about me. Which is nothing. Which means you would have died screaming for absolutely no reason."

Mave swallowed the lump of bile rising in her throat. She looked down at her flour-stained jeans and worn-out sneakers. She felt absurdly small.

"So, the deal," she whispered. "The thirty days. You really think pretending to be your girlfriend is going to stop them from killing me?"

"No," Rowan said bluntly. "It will actively encourage them to try and kill you. But the difference is, for the next thirty days, you will be surrounded by the most elite security detail money can buy. You will be sleeping in a fortress. Volkov thinks you are my vulnerability. I am going to put you on display, bathed in a spotlight, and dare him to reach for you. And when he does..."

Rowan’s eyes flashed with something deeply predatory, a terrifying spark of pure violence.

"...I will cut off his hands."

The town car descended into a private, heavily fortified underground parking garage. The heavy steel gates slammed shut behind them with a definitive clang that sounded entirely too much like a prison cell locking.

Mave followed Rowan out of the car and into a private, glass-walled elevator. As they shot upward, the city unfolded beneath them like a glittering grid of diamonds and tail-lights. They were heading to the very top of the Mercer Tower, a sleek monolith of black glass that dominated the downtown skyline.

When the elevator doors pinged open, Mave stepped out and immediately felt like she was tracking mud into a museum.

The penthouse was staggeringly beautiful, yet entirely devoid of warmth. It was all floor-to-ceiling windows, imported dark marble, brushed steel, and monochromatic modern art that probably cost more than her entire neighborhood. It looked like the inside of Rowan’s mind: cold, expensive, and impeccably controlled.

"Elias," Rowan called out.

A man materialized from the hallway. It was the giant who had held the umbrella in the alleyway. Up close, he was even more massive, built like a tank in a bespoke suit. Despite his terrifying size, his eyes held a strange, polite calm.

"Boss," Elias nodded.

"Show Miss Sullivan to the guest wing. Have the medical team check her for shock, then dispose of those clothes. They smell like a bakery fire." Rowan unbuttoned his overcoat, not sparing her a second glance. "Tomorrow at 8:00 AM, the styling team arrives. You have a lot of work to do before the gala tomorrow night."

Mave bristled, her exhaustion briefly overshadowed by indignation. "Excuse me? What's wrong with my clothes?"

Rowan paused at the threshold of what looked like a massive home office. He looked back over his shoulder, his gaze dropping to her oversized, thrifted sweater and ratty sneakers.

"Mave, you are about to be introduced to the apex predators of this city's elite as the woman who conquered Rowan Mercer. If you walk into that gala looking like a charity case who got lost on her way to a soup kitchen, Volkov will instantly know this is a setup."

He turned fully toward her, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small, black velvet box and tossed it through the air.

Reflexively, Mave caught it.

"Open it," he commanded.

With trembling fingers, Mave popped the hinge. She gasped. Resting on a bed of black silk was a diamond ring so massive it caught the ambient light of the penthouse and fractured it into a blinding rainbow. It was a flawless, emerald-cut stone surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds.

"If you're going to be my bait," Rowan said, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into that gravelly, commanding tone that made her skin prickle, "you need to look the part. Put it on."

Mave stared at the ring. It felt like a handcuff.

Slowly, she pulled the ring from the box and slid it onto the third finger of her left hand. It fit perfectly. Of course it did.

Rowan’s eyes tracked the movement, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face before the mask slammed back into place.

"Get some sleep, Mave. Tomorrow, the real game begins."

He stepped into his office, the heavy oak doors closing behind him with a quiet, terrifying finality. Mave stood in the cavernous, silent penthouse, staring at the diamond glittering on her finger.