I silently warned the most feared mafia boss in New York that his drink had been poisoned, knowing both crime families would kill me if anyone noticed. He caught my tiny signal in an instant, and the look he gave me made it clear my life would never belong to me again.

Six months later.

The autumn air over New York was crisp and cool, painting the leaves of Central Park in brilliant shades of crimson and gold.

The grand ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel was filled with over five hundred guests for the annual Russo Foundation Gala. Senators, judges, police commissioners, and the leaders of the five major crime families sat at long, flower-draped tables beneath towering crystal chandeliers.

At the head table, elevated above the rest of the room, sat Dominic Russo.

He looked regal, imposing, and completely in control of the city he ruled.

And sitting beside him, wearing a breath-taking gown of emerald green silk, with three rows of flawless diamonds around her neck, was Lydia Russo.

I was no longer the twenty-year-old girl working endless shifts to pay off a coward's debts. I was the wife of New York's most feared man, the director of a fifty-million-dollar charity foundation that funded trauma centers across the state, and the only person in the world whose quiet word could alter Dominic's mind.

A server walked up to our table, carrying a tray with two fresh glasses of champagne.

He was young, nervous, his hands shaking slightly as he set the glasses down before us.

Dominic reached for his glass.

Before his fingers touched the crystal, I extended my hand. I reached down, grabbed the black silk cocktail napkin beneath his glass, and turned it over, flattening it perfectly against the mahogany table.

Then, I looked at the server, giving him a warm, reassuring smile. "Thank you. That will be all."

The server bowed quickly and retreated into the crowd.

Dominic turned his head, his icy blue eyes melting into warm, liquid heat as he looked at me. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his sharp features.

"Habits die hard, Mrs. Russo?" he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the back of my hand.

"Some habits keep us breathing, Mr. Russo," I replied, lifting my glass of champagne and tapping it gently against his.

Dominic looked out over the glittering room, then back at my face—the face of the girl who had saved his life with a thumbnail carving an X on a piece of paper, and who had conquered his heart without firing a single bullet.

"To the X on the napkin," Dominic whispered, his voice dark, smooth, and filled with endless devotion.