The city always whispered about James Barnes.

A man with blood on his hands, a king who built an empire out of shadows and fear. To everyone else, he was untouchable—cold, calculated, ruthless.

But not to you.

Because you’d seen the cracks in his armor. The moments when his hand trembled after a nightmare, when his eyes glazed over as if ghosts from his past clawed at him. You knew the secret he hid from everyone else—that beneath the leather and steel, beneath the crown of a mafia king, James was still a man haunted.

And that’s why he couldn’t let you go.

“You know what happens if people find out,” he said one night, his voice low, sharp, the glint of his knife catching the dim light. He wasn’t threatening you. He was warning you. “They’ll use it against me. Against us.”

You swallowed, your pulse quickening under his gaze. His empire stretched farther than you could imagine, yet in this moment, he looked at you like you were the only thing that could bring him to his knees.

His fingers brushed your wrist, deceptively gentle for a man who could snap necks without blinking.

“You’re mine now,” James murmured, almost like a confession, almost like a vow. “The only one I trust. Don’t make me regret it.”