“Don’t Fall in Love With Me,” She Warned—The Mafia Boss Locked the Door and Broke His Own Rule

Forty-eight hours later.

The storm over New York had finally passed, leaving behind a crisp, brilliant autumn afternoon that turned the waters of the Hudson River into a sheet of liquid silver.

On the seventy-second floor of the newly secured Mercer Tower on Wall Street, the grand executive office was quiet, bright, and smelled of polished mahogany and fresh lilies.

Beatrice Abbott sat in a heavy leather armchair across from the massive executive desk.

She wore a brand-new tailored emerald-green wool suit that accented her full, curving figure with stunning, breathtaking elegance. Her dark brown hair was held up in a flawless, professional French twist with a new silver fountain pen.

Sitting across from her was Bastion Mercer.

He wore a dark navy three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark silk tie. His face was clean-shaven, his dark hair neatly styled, though the razor-thin silver glint in his eyes remained as dangerous and captivating as ever.

On the desk between them rested two items:

First, a thick leather-bound contract stamped with the official seal of the MERCER GLOBAL HOLDINGS EXECUTIVE BOARD.

Second, a small, square velvet box.

"Read the terms, Beatrice," Bastion said, his low baritone voice smooth as silk across the quiet room.

Beatrice picked up the contract, opening the heavy parchment pages.

"Clause One," she read aloud, her voice cool and analytical. "Beatrice Abbott is appointed Chief Financial Director and Senior Risk Trustee of Mercer Global Holdings, possessing full, unencumbered veto power over all international financial transfers, corporate restructuring, and subsidiary land holdings."

She looked up over her glasses. "Veto power over your entire empire?"

"Every dollar," Bastion said softly. "If you don't sign off, the ship doesn't leave the dock."

She looked back down at the paper.

"Clause Two," she continued. "An annual compensation package of two point five million dollars, plus four percent equity in all commercial real estate development across the Port of New York."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's three times what my old firm billed in a year."

"You saved me forty million dollars and caught a traitor in my inner circle in three days," Bastion said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the mahogany desk. "You're underpaid."

Beatrice set the contract down flat on the desk. She looked at the small velvet box sitting beside it.

"And what is that?" she asked quietly.

Bastion reached out, his thick fingers opening the velvet box.

Inside rested a stunning, vintage platinum ring set with an emerald-cut dark grey diamond that caught the afternoon sunlight like a shard of storm-cloud glass.

Beatrice felt her breath catch in her throat.

"Bastion..." she whispered, her voice losing its cool, professional armor for the first time.

"It's not an engagement ring, Beatrice," Bastion said softly, his silver eyes locking onto hers with terrifying, absolute sincerity. "Not yet. I am a man who respects boundaries, and I know you don't bow to fast-talking men with nice suits."

He picked up the ring, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

"This is a key," Bastion murmured, stepping around the desk and kneeling on one knee beside her leather chair—a gesture of total, unreserved surrender from the most feared man in Manhattan.

He took her soft, strong hand in his, his large palm warm and steady.

"Three days ago," Bastion whispered, looking up into her grey eyes, "you told me not to fall in love with you. You told me you were too loud, too difficult, and took up too much space."

He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deep kiss against her knuckles.

"I spent my whole life surrounded by small, quiet people who lied to me," Bastion said, his voice dropping into a deep, emotional register that made her heart race wild and free. "You filled this room, Beatrice. You filled my mind. And you showed me that real power isn't a weapon you carry... it's a partner who stands beside you when the lights go out."

Beatrice looked down at him—at the dangerous, powerful mob boss kneeling at her feet, offering her his empire, his trust, and his heart without a single condition.

A slow, radiant, breathtaking smile spread across her face.

"You really broke your own rule, didn't you, Mr. Mercer?" she whispered softly.

"I burned the rulebook forty-eight hours ago," Bastion replied, a dark, beautiful grin lighting up his dangerous face. "Now... are you going to sign my contract, or do I have to keep kneeling on this hardwood floor?"

Beatrice reached down, taking the silver fountain pen from her dark hair, letting her thick locks fall over her shoulders once more.

She signed her name across the heavy parchment in smooth, elegant cursive: Beatrice Abbott.