Chapter 3 MARRY ME.

The white silk handkerchief was still rigidly pressed against the straight nose of this Greek god with a plastic surgeon complex. The most infuriating part of the whole situation was that he wasn't even looking at me. His eyes were glued to the floor. Specifically, to a brown smudge the size of a dime.

"Gino," the man in the immaculate suit spoke. His voice was deep, utterly devoid of human inflection. "You just tracked a mud print, likely laced with stray dog feces, onto my Carrara marble floor. You'd better not pull a stunt like that ever again, or you'll be sleeping with the fishes."

The giant next to me swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple looked ready to punch through his throat. He took three clumsy steps backward, dragging Tito with him. They left me standing alone in the center of the living room, like a chocolate-smeared show pony.

Anxiety hammered against my chest. I was in a nest of psychopaths, hundreds of feet in the air, and my brain completely short-circuited.

"I-if the plan is to sacrifice me to a pagan god, or h-harvest my kidneys for the black market, I should warn you my liver is already failing," I blurted out, white-knuckling my tote bag strap. "And t-the donut I just scarfed down is definitely gonna ruin the taste of my blood. J-just saying. So you don’t go asking for refunds later."

The man in the suit slowly lowered his handkerchief. He turned his head toward me. The icy chill of his stare slammed right into mine. He didn't look amused, or angry. He looked genuinely nauseated.

"What is that thing on her face?" he asked his goons, completely ignoring my rant about human sacrifice.

"It's chocolate, boss," Tito replied, sweating bullets. "She was eating when we found her."

"A donut I stole from an office worker," I chimed in automatically. Why the hell was I clarifying that? Oh, right. Because I didn't have much time left to live and I didn't give a flying fuck about anything anymore.

The mafia boss wrinkled his nose. His first instinct was to take a half-step back. His entire posture screamed bacterial panic. I caught a whiff of the scent rolling off him: he didn't smell like cheap tobacco and gunpowder like in the movies. He smelled of an insanely expensive woody cologne, cut with an unmistakable, unsettling undertone of clinical bleach. This guy was sterilized.

"You're fired," the boss declared, adjusting his silver cufflinks without even looking at them. "Take this walking Petri dish back where she came from. Sanitize your hands before you leave my building. And don't come back."

"Boss, please!" Gino squeaked, dropping to his knees. The impact made the bulletproof windows rattle. "Don Carmine gets here in less than forty-eight hours! He demanded we find you the perfect woman to marry! If we don't present someone, he's gonna chop off Tito's and my hands!"

The word marriage hovered in the freezing air of the penthouse. My brain scrambled to connect the dots. I’d been kidnapped to get married? I looked at the germaphobe hottie. The guy was having a severe internal crisis, splitting his attention between my sticky face and the mud on the floor.

"I asked for a presentable woman for a high-society event," he countered, biting off every syllable with freezing precision. "And you brought me a feral raccoon babbling about organs and theft."

"H-hey! I have a bachelor's degree!" I protested, highly offended. "And my name is Valeria, for your information."

He ignored my complaint. He closed the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps, like he was approaching an unexploded bomb. He stopped exactly three feet outside my personal bubble. The height difference was absurd; I had to crane my neck back just to hold his gaze. Up close, his beauty was frankly insulting. Thick lashes, a chiseled jawline, and skin so devoid of pores it looked like an internet filter in real life.

He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulled out a silver pen. Instead of using his fingers, he used the cold metal end of the pen to tilt my chin up—even though I already had it raised—meticulously avoiding any skin-to-skin contact.

He angled my face toward the harsh light of the massive window. I could visibly see him holding his breath.

"Symmetrical bone structure. Large eyes. Full set of teeth," he muttered, appraising me like a racehorse. "I suppose if we dunk her in sulfuric acid and strip off the hobo clothes, she might pass for a decent human being."

This son of a... who isn't a decent human being here? I should smack his hand away... ugh, whatever, I'll let it slide because he’s hot. Besides, the crisp, clean scent radiating off his suit had me weirdly hypnotized.

"My father, Don Carmine, is an irrational and violent man," the boss began to explain, pocketing the pen with mechanical movements. "He gave me an ultimatum. Either I present an official fiancée this Friday to solidify the family's public image, or he strips me of my seat in the syndicate and forces me to marry his worst enemy's daughter."

"T-that sounds like a you problem, Mr. Clean," I shot back, crossing my arms. "I have my own drama. Let me go."

"I don't think you understand," he pushed on, bulldozing right over my insolence. "I am offering you a job. An exclusive contract. A fake marriage for one year. Zero physical contact, separate bedrooms, and one million dollars upon completion of the term."

The number ricocheted around my skull. One million dollars. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have sobbed tears of joy, kissed this guy's Italian leather shoes, and signed the contract in my own blood. But Dr. Vargas's deadpan face hijacked my brain.

I’d say you have a month to live.

The knot in my throat tightened until it physically hurt. The adrenaline from the getaway and the stolen donut evaporated, leaving a massive, cold crater in my stomach.

I didn't need a million dollars. I needed a medical miracle.

"No," I whispered, feeling my knees start to shake all over again.

"No?" Lorenzo's brow furrowed for the very first time, cracking his icy mask. "Are you attempting to negotiate the sum?"

"I-I'm not n-negotiating a-a-anything." The stutter roared back with brutal force. The stark white lights of the penthouse made me dizzy. My breath hitched. "I-I'm gonna die."