I Married the Mafia Boss Six Women Ran From—Then I Discovered Why They Really Left

The first time I touched Lorenzo Duca, six armed men reached for their guns - and I was strangling him with his own tie.

"If you're going to murder me, Mrs. Carter," he said calmly, "I'd prefer you wait until after the wedding."

"I'm not murdering you. I'm falling."

My heel had caught the edge of a rug that probably cost more than my bakery. I grabbed the closest thing available: Lorenzo's black silk tie. I yanked. He lurched forward. I slammed into a chest that felt like a brick wall wrapped in Italian wool.

The marble foyer went silent.

Then one guard coughed into his fist because he was trying not to laugh.

I looked up at Lorenzo Duca - six-foot-five, dark hair, trimmed beard, massive hands, and the kind of calm gray eyes that made people confess things nobody had asked.

"Sorry," I whispered.

His hand stayed around my waist, steadying me. "You done falling?"

"No promises."

One corner of his mouth moved.

I pointed at him. "You smiled."

"I did not."

Behind him, Marco Bellini suddenly became fascinated by the chandelier.

I had agreed to spend ninety days at the Duca estate because Rosa Duca, Lorenzo's terrifying seventy-nine-year-old grandmother, had written me a letter that sounded like a business proposal crossed with a medieval marriage contract. Separate rooms. No obligation. I could leave anytime.

Six women had come before me.

All six had walked away.

Chicago gossip said they were frightened by Lorenzo's size, his strength, his reputation, or all three.

I had promised myself I would judge the man, not the rumors.

That promise lasted exactly eight minutes.

At my bedroom door, Lorenzo handed me a brass key.

"What is this?"

"Your room."

"And if I lock it?"

"Nobody enters. Not housekeeping. Not Marco. Not me."

I stared at him.

My ex-fiancé had once copied my apartment key without permission and called it trust.