The air in the Garrison shifted. Conversations slowed, glasses stilled mid-air, and every Shelby brother’s gaze snapped to the entrance.

Luca Vitiello had arrived.

The ruthless NYC don, a man known for crushing his enemies with his bare hands, stood tall and menacing, his cold gaze scanning the room with lethal intent. But what truly caught their attention wasn’t just him—it was the woman in front of him.

You.

A cinnamon roll wrapped in heavy curves and a short frame, a normal girl who had somehow been claimed by the most dangerous bastard in the mafia world. And if the rumors were true, Luca Vitiello hadn’t just taken you—he was obsessed with you.

You walked in, oblivious to the way men stared. Luca wasn’t. His entire body tensed, his jaw clenched, and the deadly glare he shot at every man who so much as glanced at you was a silent promise of violence.

Arthur let out a low whistle. “Bloody ‘ell. That’s him, eh?”

Tommy, cigarette between his fingers, exhaled slowly, eyes flicking between you and the man at your back. “And that,” he muttered, watching as Luca’s hand found your waist possessively, “is the only thing keeping him from tearing this place apart.”