Chapter 1 - THE WRONG BATHROOM AND THE MAFIA BOSS'S GUN
I Walked Into the Mafia Boss’s Bedroom by Mistake — Then His Family Opened the Door and Mistook Me for the Woman He Was Hiding
The first thing I noticed was the gun.
Not the enormous bed with its charcoal silk sheets. Not the marble bathroom still clouded with steam. Not even the half-dressed man standing beneath the warm bedroom lights, a black towel wrapped around his waist and water dripping from his dark hair.
The gun.
It appeared in his hand so quickly that my mind couldn’t connect the movement to the danger. One second, I was standing in what I believed was an empty guest bathroom, trying to rescue my ruined midnight-blue dress. The next, I was staring at a pistol held by a man whose photograph had appeared in more Chicago newspapers than some elected officials.
Massimo Romano.
I knew his face before he said a word.
Everybody in Chicago knew his face.
I slowly raised both hands, letting the wet fabric fall against my knees. Behind me, the bathroom faucet was still running, and somewhere beyond the enormous bedroom windows, thunder rolled across the lake.
“I think,” I whispered, “I’ve made a very serious mistake.”
Massimo didn’t move.
He was taller than I had expected, with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and an expression so calm it was more frightening than anger. A thin scar crossed his left eyebrow. Another, older scar disappeared beneath the towel at his ribs.
“That depends,” he said. “How did you get through that door?”
“I opened it.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I gathered that.”
“I was looking for a bathroom.”
“Inside my private bedroom?”
“I didn’t know it was your bedroom.”
He glanced at my dress, soaked along one side with brownish water, then toward the open bathroom door.
“Who sent you upstairs?”
“A housekeeper. Elena. She said there was another bathroom on the third floor, west corridor, last door before the staircase.”
Something changed in his expression.
It happened so quickly I almost missed it.
“Which staircase?”
I blinked.
“The staircase.”
“There are two.”
“Well, that’s a spectacularly unhelpful architectural decision.”
His eyebrows lifted.
For one impossible second, I thought the most feared man in Chicago might actually laugh.
Instead, he lowered the gun.
Then we both heard footsteps.
Several people were approaching from the hallway, their voices overlapping behind the heavy double doors.
Massimo looked toward the sound.
His entire posture changed.
“Don’t say anything yet.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just—”
The doors opened.
An elegant elderly woman stood in the doorway wearing a silver evening gown and an expression of absolute authority. Beside her was a beautiful middle-aged woman in pearls, followed by two distinguished gentlemen in expensive suits.
All four stopped.
Their eyes moved toward me.
Then toward Massimo.
Then toward his towel.
Then toward the enormous bed behind us.
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the bathroom faucet dripping.
The woman in pearls brought one hand to her throat.
“Massimo!”
The elderly woman raised her eyebrows.
One of the gentlemen looked at the clock.
It was 12:17 a.m.
I wanted to disappear into the marble floor.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I said.
But Massimo spoke over me.
“She’s with me.”
Four words.
That was all.
Four words that transformed an embarrassing misunderstanding into something infinitely worse.
I turned toward him.
“What?”
He didn’t look at me.
The elderly woman’s mouth slowly curved into a smile.
“Well,” she said. “That explains everything.”
I stared at her.
“Actually, it explains absolutely nothing.”
She ignored me.
Instead, she looked at Massimo with unmistakable satisfaction.
“So this is why you refused Adriana.”
I looked from her to him.
“Who’s Adriana?”
The woman in pearls closed her eyes.
Massimo sighed.
And I realized that whatever mistake I’d made by opening the wrong door, this man had just made it permanent.
Six hours earlier, my biggest concern had been white roses.
I would have given almost anything to have that problem back.
My name is Sophie Miller. I was twenty-nine years old, owned a small floral-event business in Chicago, and had spent most of my adult life learning that beautiful things could be surprisingly expensive to keep alive.
Miller Floral & Events operated out of a rented brick warehouse in the West Loop. I had three employees, two delivery vans, an aging refrigeration unit, and a business checking account that rarely held enough money to make me comfortable.
My father had been a mechanic. My mother had worked at a public elementary school until arthritis made the job too difficult.
Neither of them had ever owned a business.
When I opened mine, my father told me that if I wanted independence, I had to understand the difference between owning something and being owned by it.
I thought he meant invoices.
Five years later, I understood he meant everything.
The Romano contract was supposed to change my financial future.
Four thousand imported white garden roses, custom-built floral installations, twenty-eight dining centerpieces, an illuminated staircase arrangement, and an enormous birthday display for Isabella Romano’s eighty-fifth birthday celebration.
The event was being held at the Romano estate in Barrington Hills, outside Chicago.
The property looked less like a private home than a European embassy designed by someone who considered security more important than comfort.
There were stone gates, cameras, black SUVs, and enough guards in tailored suits to make me feel as if every delivery of hydrangeas required diplomatic approval.
I knew the rumors.
Everybody did.
The Romano family controlled shipping businesses, construction contracts, nightclubs, restaurants, private investment companies, and half a dozen enterprises that seemed perfectly legitimate until someone started asking why their competitors kept disappearing from the market.
Massimo Romano had inherited leadership of the organization after his father died.
He was thirty-eight.
Newspapers called him a suspected organized-crime figure.
Business magazines called him a private investor.
The people who worked for him simply called him Mr. Romano.
I had no intention of learning which description was most accurate.
My job was flowers.
And I was very good at flowers.
For three days, my team had transformed the estate into a white-and-gold dream. Thousands of roses curved around marble columns. Delicate arrangements decorated the grand staircase. A suspended installation of white blooms and tiny lights hovered above the ballroom like a cloud.
Everything had gone smoothly until 11:30 that night.
I was inspecting the final arrangements when a pipe burst above the staff changing room.
A terrible metallic crack echoed through the wall.
Then water began pouring through the ceiling.
Someone screamed.
My assistant Jasmine grabbed a box of linen napkins and ran.
I moved toward the flower-storage shelves, trying to protect several arrangements that had not yet been transferred into the ballroom.
I saved the flowers.
My dress was less fortunate.
Cold, rusty water soaked my left shoulder, ran down my waist, and turned the expensive midnight-blue fabric into something that looked like a child had dragged it through a flooded parking lot.
I stood beneath the leaking ceiling, dripping and furious.
“Perfect,” I muttered.
A housekeeper named Elena appeared carrying towels.
“Oh, Miss Miller. You can’t stay like that.”
“I was thinking of adding a few water lilies and calling it artistic.”
She gave a nervous smile.
“There’s another bathroom upstairs. The plumbing is fine there.”
“Where?”
“Third floor. West corridor. Last door before the staircase.”
“Are you sure guests won’t be using it?”
“It’s empty tonight.”
She hesitated.
Then added, “You can use the service elevator.”
I thanked her.
If I had paid closer attention, I might have noticed how carefully she watched me leave.
But I was tired.
My feet hurt.
And I wanted nothing more complicated than a towel, dry hair, and five minutes of privacy.
The service elevator opened onto the third floor.
I turned left.
Passed a long hallway lined with oil paintings.
Found the last door before a staircase.
And walked inside.
The bathroom lights were already on.
I remember thinking it was strange that an unused guest bathroom smelled faintly of expensive men’s cologne.
Then I saw a white towel folded beside the sink.
I stepped inside, shut the outer door behind me, and began blotting water from my dress.
A few seconds later, the shower turned off.
I froze.
Then a deep male voice spoke from somewhere beyond the partially open bathroom door.
“Who is there?”
I screamed.
A man appeared.
He reached for a towel.
I stumbled backward into the adjoining bedroom.
May you like
And Massimo Romano reached for his gun.
That was how I ended up standing in front of his family at twelve seventeen in the morning, looking like the world’s least convincing secret girlfriend.
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