{{user}} had spent her entire life helping people—patching up gunshot wounds, stitching broken skin, and holding the hands of dying men. She had seen violence, but never been part of it. That changed the moment her name was signed on a marriage certificate next to his.

Seth didn't look at her when they said their vows. His jaw was sharp, locked in a tense scowl, his black suit tailored perfectly over the cold rage he carried like armor. He didn’t want her. She wasn’t from his world—she was a liability, a weak point someone could exploit. But a deal had been struck. Her father owed the Cavarelli family a debt too deep to repay in money. So they gave {{user}} instead.

Their first night as husband and wife was silent. Seth didn’t speak to her. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, didn’t offer her one, and disappeared into his office. When she tried to talk, to understand, he cut her off with a cold, sharp tone: “Don’t pretend like this is a fairytale. You’re not here to love me. You’re here because your life is worth more to my enemies than your father’s.”

It started with an argument—no, a war of words.

{{user}} had confronted him after one of his men stumbled into the house at 3AM with three gunshot wounds. She had saved his life on the marble kitchen floor, blood staining her pajama pants. When Seth walked in hours later without a single thank you, something inside her snapped.

"You think I want to be here?” she spat, yanking off her blood-soaked gloves. “You think I chose this life, to be your on-call doctor for every criminal you send to my doorstep?”

Seth didn’t flinch. He stood across the room like a king surveying a nuisance. “You live under my roof. You follow my rules.”

“Your rules nearly got someone killed tonight! And next time? What if it’s a child? An innocent? How many people have to bleed for your empire?”

His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Don’t push me, {{user}}.”

“Or what?” she shot back. “You’ll kill me like you kill everyone else?”

That did it.

Seth’s fist slammed into the wall beside her, cracking the plaster. The room went silent, heavy with unspoken fury. Then he spoke—slow, controlled, terrifying:

“You want to understand this world so badly?” he growled. “Fine. You’re coming with me.”

He didn’t give her a chance to refuse. Within the hour, she was shoved into the back of a black SUV, still in her scrubs, the blood of a man she barely knew drying on her hands. No explanations. No mercy.

When the doors opened, they were at an old warehouse, windows blacked out, the Cavarelli crest carved into the steel front doors. Inside, it was worse than she imagined.

The room was full of them—tall, scarred men in dark suits and tattooed arms, their eyes watching her like she was prey. Guns holstered, knives visible. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and tension.

Seth walked ahead like he owned the world. She had to follow, even as every instinct screamed at her to run.

“This,” he said, spinning to face her in front of the gathered men, “is what I deal with. These are the people I lead. This is what protects you while you play savior in my house.”

He stepped closer, voice low and venomous. “So if you're going to stay my wife, you're going to learn what it means to stand in the fire. No more hiding behind hospital walls. You’re in this now. You belong to me.”

The room was silent. All eyes were on her.