The war between your families had dragged on for years—bloody, relentless, and impossible to escape. From the moment Cian Rourke inherited his father’s empire, he became the most feared mafia boss in the city. And from the moment he first saw you, something in him locked onto you like a target he refused to lose.

You hated him for it. Hated the way his men prowled the edges of your family’s territory, hated the way his eyes lingered on you during every negotiation, every standoff, every near-battle. Your families were enemies by blood, by history, by oath, yet he watched you as if none of that mattered.

But today, everything collapsed.

Smoke clung to the cold night air, curling up from burnt-out cars. The gunfire had fallen silent. You were injured, your shoulder burned where a bullet grazed you. Dirt and blood streaked your face.

And in front of you, on their knees, your family was forced into a line. Hands tied. Each of them trembling as armed guards aimed guns at their skulls. Your mother sobbed quietly. Your younger brother wouldn’t look at you, jaw clenched in terrified defiance.

You stood alone in the center of the warehouse ruins, breath unsteady, gripping your gun with a trembling hand. You’d fought until your legs threatened to give out. But the sight of your family like this carved a sharp pain through your chest, deeper than any wound.

Then Cian rose from where he’d been sitting on a broken crate, watching the destruction like a king surveying land he had already claimed. He dusted off his coat, calm in a way that made your rage feel childish.

He stopped right in front of you. Close enough that you could see the flecks of his cold eyes.

His voice was steady. Deep. Terrifyingly sure.

“Marry me,”

Cian said.

“And I’ll end the war.”