The Mafia Boss Heard His Rival Flirt With Her — His Three-Word Response Shocked Everyone
Part 1:
The velvet curtain separating the auction floor from the storage vault smelled like dust and old money. My fingertips traced the edge of a guilt frame, searching for the catalog number that would lead me to the Blackwell CEX. The 15th century manuscript stolen from my grandmother’s estate 3 months ago. Around me, crates of looted art sat like confessions waiting to be heard.
I’d spent six years becoming invisible at the Harrington Public Library. Mastering the art of silence and observation. Cataloging medieval texts taught me patience. Decoding Providence records taught me how thieves thought. Tonight, both skills had gotten me past security at this underground auction, dressed in borrowed designer black and carrying forged credentials as an art appraiser.
The codeex wasn’t just rare. It was the last thing my grandmother had touched before the stroke that left her unable to speak. Inside its illuminated pages, she’d hidden a family tree, proving our claim to land worth millions. Without it, we’d lose everything to distant cousins who’d hired these same thieves.
My pulse hammered as I found the right crate. The wood creaked when I pried it open, revealing leather bindings and gold leaf that caught the dim light. There, the Blackwell crest embossed on burgundy calf skin. Looking for something specific? I spun around, heart stopping. The man blocking the doorway wore a perfectly tailored black suit that whispered wealth and danger in equal measure.
Dark hair swept back from a face carved from marble. Sharp jaw, straight nose, eyes the color of smoke before a storm. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that made the air feel thinner. James Thornon. I recognized him from newspaper photos that never quite captured the intensity of him in person. The city’s most powerful crime lord.
The man who controlled everything from shipping to politics through a network of legitimate businesses. Fronting for something much darker. I’m with the appraisal team, I managed, forcing my voice steady. Catalog verification. His gaze swept over me, assessing. Funny. I approved every appraiser personally. I don’t remember you.
Before I could respond, another voice cut through the tension. Well, well, Thornton, hiding the best pieces in the back room. Patrick Sullivan emerged from the shadows, his smile sharp as broken glass, older, rougher around the edges, with the kind of calculated charm that set my teeth on edge. And who’s this lovely creature you’re keeping to yourself? The rivalry between them was legendary.
Two empires constantly circling, looking for weakness. Sullivan ran the docks. Thornton controlled everything else. The auction tonight was neutral ground, a rare truce to liquidate shared assets. Sullivan’s eyes traveled over me with the kind of appraisal that made my skin crawl. She’s absolutely irresistible. What happened next defied logic.
James moved with startling speed, his hand closing around my waist and pulling me against his side. The contact sent electricity through every nerve ending. His body was solid, warm, radiating controlled power. “And mine,” he said, his voice dropping to something cold and lethal. “I should have protested, should have pulled away.
Instead, I found myself frozen, acutely aware of his fingers spread across my hip, the expensive cedar and leather scent of him, the way every person in that storage room suddenly looked at me differently.” Sullivan’s expression shifted. Surprise, then calculation, then something uglier. Yours? Since when do you bring dates to business? Thornton.
Since I stopped trusting you not to poach what belongs to me. James’ tone could have frozen nitrogen. His hand tightened fractionally. A possessive claim that should have terrified me. It didn’t. Instead, something strange unfurled in my chest. All those years of making myself small, of fading into the background at the library, of letting louder voices drown mine out, they evaporated.
Standing there in the circle of his arm, I felt my spine straighten. I don’t appreciate being disgusted like property, I heard myself say, my voice carrying an edge I didn’t know I possessed. Both men turned to stare at me, though I suppose that’s fitting, given we’re at an auction. Sullivan laughed, genuinely surprised.
She’s got fire. Careful, Thornton. This one might burn you. I’m counting on it. James looked down at me, and something flickered in those storm gray eyes, not anger at my interruption. Interest. We should return to the auction floor. I have items to acquire. His hands stayed on my waist as he guided me past Sullivan, past the crates of stolen history, back toward the main hall where crystal chandeliers illuminated the criminal elite of the city.
I should have run, should have screamed, should have done anything except match his stride perfectly, my borrowed heels clicking in rhythm with his expensive shoes. “You’re not an appraiser,” he murmured, quiet enough that only I heard. No, you’re looking for something specific. That codeex. My breath caught. He’d noticed what I’d been examining in those few seconds before speaking.
It belongs to my family. Does it? We reached the edge of the auction floor, but he steered me toward a private al cove instead. His hand finally released my waist, but he positioned himself between me and any exit. Explain quickly. The smart move would have been to lie. Instead, I met his eyes and told the truth.
My grandmother’s estate, the Blackwell collection, stolen 3 months ago. That codeex contains documents proving our legal claim to land. Your associates are currently selling to developers. His expression didn’t change. You broke into my auction to steal it back to reclaim what was stolen first. I lifted my chin, refusing to show the terror clawing through my chest. If that makes me a thief, fine.
But I’m a thief with a legitimate grievance. For three heartbeats, he simply studied me. Then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth lifted. You have courage. Stupidity, too, but courage. Is there a difference in your world? Occasionally. He pulled out his phone, typed something quickly. Here’s what’s going to happen.
Sullivan saw you with me. If I let you leave now, he’ll have you followed, investigated, potentially used against me. That makes you a liability I can’t afford. Cold washed through me. So, you’re going to hire you, he interrupted, as my fiance for 6 months, you play the role convincingly. Public appearances, private dinners, enough visibility that Sullivan believes the relationship is real.
In exchange, I returned the codeex to your grandmother with full documentation of legitimate providence. I stared at him. You want me to fake being engaged to you? I want Sullivan to believe you’re off limits. He has a habit of targeting anything I show interest in, and I just showed considerable interest. His gaze locked with mine.
This benefits us both. You get your family’s property. I get a buffer against Sullivan’s provocations and a companion who apparently knows medieval manuscripts well enough to identify them under pressure. I’m a librarian, I said faintly, not an actress. You just stood in a room full of criminals and critiqued how we discussed you.
You’ll be fine. He extended his hand. 6 months, Grace Mitchell, I know your name. I know everything about everyone who enters my territory. The question is whether you’re brave enough to say yes. I should have said no. Should have run back to my quiet library and my invisible life. Should have found another way to reclaim the codeex.
Instead, I looked at his offered hand and thought about my grandmother’s trembling fingers trying to sign words she could no longer speak. Thought about the cousins circling like vultures. Thought about six years of silence and safety that had gotten me nowhere. I thought about how my heart had raced when he’d called me his.
6 months, I agreed, placing my hand in his, “And I want the agreement in writing.” His smile was brief but genuine. I wouldn’t expect anything less. That handshake sealed a bargain neither of us fully understood yet. As James led me back into the auction hall, his hand returning to that possessive position at my waist, I caught Sullivan watching us with calculating eyes.
The lie had been born from instinct and necessity. What came next would test whether a quiet librarian could survive 6 months in the spotlight beside the city’s most dangerous man or whether she might discover she didn’t want to survive it. She wanted to stay. The contract arrived at the library the next morning delivered by a man in a black suit who looked like he bench pressed sedans for fun.
William Roberts, James’ head of security, waited while I read through 12 pages of legal terminology that boiled down to pretend to love him convincingly. Don’t embarrass him publicly, and absolutely don’t fall for him. Actually, that last part wasn’t written explicitly, but it hung between the lines like a warning. Sign on page 11, William said, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone built like a concrete wall. Mr.
