The question hung in the stale, blood-scented air of my apartment, heavy with the weight of a dozen different execution styles.

I didn't blink. I couldn't. Roman Bianchi was leaning back against my grandmother’s daisy-patterned blanket, his bare chest stark against the pastel yellow wool, the thick white gauze wrapping his abdomen standing out like a badge of dark allegiance. Beneath his dark lashes, his eyes were analytical, stripping away my defensive posture layer by layer.

“Because if you died on my welcome mat, the police would have searched my place, found the unregistered antique pistol my dead grandfather left me, and I’d spend twenty years in San Quentin for a murder I didn't commit,” I answered, keeping my voice flat and completely devoid of fear.

A lie, of course. I had saved him because my nursing instinct—the one I’d starved myself to pay for—refused to let a living breathing human bleed out while I watched. But telling a mafia boss you think he has a soul is a great way to get a bullet through your forehead.

Roman stared at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, a dark, amusement-laced sound rumbled in his chest, making his freshly stitched wound twitch. He winced, his jaw clenching, but his eyes never left mine.

“A pragmatic survivalist,” Roman murmured, swinging his heavy legs over the edge of the sofa. The blankets pooled around his waist. He looked down at the crude medical tape securing his bandage. “You have steady hands for an amateur. And you lack a sense of self-preservation. A dangerous combination.”

“The only thing dangerous in this room is you,” I snapped, standing up and setting my empty coffee mug down with a sharp clack. “You need to get dressed, or find whatever shredded remains of your five-thousand-dollar suit are salvageable, and get out. My landlord comes by on Tuesdays to check the plumbing, and if he sees a bleeding organized crime syndicate kingpin sitting on my floral sofa, I’m evicted.”

Roman stood. He swayed slightly, the blood loss catching up to him, but his hand shot out and caught the back of my armchair before I could step in to steady him.

“My clothes are ruined,” he said smoothly, his deep voice dropping an octave as he closed the physical distance between us. Even injured, he towered over me, smelling faintly of high-end bourbon, ozone, and copper. “And as for your landlord, Mr. Henderson, he owes forty thousand dollars in back-taxes on this building. He won't be checking plumbing today.”

My breath hitched. “You own him.”

“I own the debt,” Roman corrected softly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. “Which means, by extension, I own this building. Which means, Nora, you are living under my roof.”

“For another ten minutes if you don't walk out that door.”

“I’m not leaving.” Roman took another step forward, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers hovering inches from my cheek before he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was burning hot, electric, and terrifyingly gentle. “Not yet. Someone tried to kill me tonight, Nora. Which means someone knows I am vulnerable. Until I find out who ratted me out from the inside, stepping outside these four walls is an invitation to a second attempt.”

“And you chose my apartment? Amidst the hundreds of safehouses you undoubtedly own?”

“The safehouses are predictable,” Roman said, a dangerous smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Nobody looks for the ruthless boss of the Bianchi family bleeding on a broke nursing dropout’s floor.”

Before I could retort, a sharp, deafening knock hammered against my apartment door.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Roman’s body went completely rigid. In a fraction of a second, the charismatic investor vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal apex predator. His hand instinctively swept toward his empty waistline where a gun should have been.

“Nora,” a muffled, gravelly voice yelled from the hallway. It belonged to Sal, Roman’s notorious second-in-command. “Boss's car was found abandoned two blocks down. We’re sweeping the floor. Open up!”

Panic surged through my veins. If Sal and his crew burst in and saw their boss injured in my apartment, they wouldn't just assume I helped him—they’d assume I was part of the hit.

I looked up at Roman, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.