SHE MUST BE MINE.

The city thrummed with a restless pulse, its streets alive with the hum of neon signs and the distant wail of sirens. Sophia adjusted her worn scrubs as she stepped out of St. Mary’s Hospital, the late shift clinging to her like damp fog. Her hands still trembled faintly—not from exhaustion, but from the memory of the young man she’d lost on her table an hour ago, his blood seeping through her gloves as his pulse flatlined. She inhaled the sharp night air, willing it to steady her, when a shadow detached itself from the alley across the street. He moved like a predator—deliberate, unhurried, yet coiled with menace. Don Vincenzo Ricci. She didn’t need to see the tailored suit or the glint of the silver ring on his finger to know him; his presence alone was a storm cloud rolling over the city. Whispers of his name had haunted the hospital for weeks—patients with gunshot wounds who refused to talk, cops who lingered too long in the halls. Now, here he was, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that pinned her in place. "You’re the nurse,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. It wasn’t a question. He stepped closer, and the streetlight caught the sharp planes of his face—beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, like a blade honed to perfection. Sophia straightened, her chin lifting despite the instinctive tighten in her chest. “And you’re the reason I’m sewing up kids who should be in school, not bleeding out.” Her words snapped out, sharper than she’d intended, fueled by the grief still clawing at her throat. His lips twitched—amusement or irritation, she couldn’t tell. “Bold,” he murmured, circling her like a wolf sizing up prey. “Most people don’t talk to me like that.” His gaze raked over her, slow and deliberate, and she felt it like a physical touch—intrusive, searing. “You’re not afraid.” “I’m tired,” she shot back, holding his stare even as her pulse hammered. “There’s a difference.” But there was fear, buried beneath her defiance—a flicker of it, sparking at the edges of her resolve. He was too close now, the scent of his cologne mingling with the faint metallic tang of something darker. Blood, maybe. Power, certainly. Vincenzo tilted his head, studying her as if she were a puzzle he intended to break apart. “You saved one of my men last week,” he said, his tone shifting—less accusation, more curiosity. “Stabbed in the gut. Docs said he wouldn’t make it. You did.” Sophia’s stomach twisted. She remembered the patient—mid-twenties, silent as stone, his eyes hollow with loyalty she didn’t understand. “I save who I can,” she said tightly. “Doesn’t mean I’m proud of it when they’re your pawns.” A shadow crossed his face, and for a moment, she thought she’d pushed too far. But then he stepped closer still, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You think you’re above it all, don’t you? That golden heart of yours—beating for everyone but yourself.” His breath brushed her ear, and she hated the shiver it sent down her spine—hated how it wasn’t entirely fear. “What happens when it bleeds for the wrong man?” Her fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “I don’t bleed for anyone,” she lied, her voice steady despite the storm roiling inside her. “Especially not you.” He smiled then—a slow, dangerous curve of his lips that promised trouble. “We’ll see.” He lingered a beat longer, that whispered his name in the dark. She turned toward home, but the echo of his words clung to her like a second skin, a warning and a lure all at once.