Chapter 1 - Six months after my mafia boss husband humiliated me for touching his arm in public, another man placed his hand on my waist at a charity gala.
Roman Duca was standing thirty feet away.
The moment he saw us, Chicago's most feared mafia boss went completely still.
Three armed bodyguards stopped talking. His closest associate slowly lowered his drink.
Everyone knew that expression.
It was the look Roman wore when someone had made a terrible mistake.
But this time, the mistake wasn't mine.
Because six months earlier, my husband had looked directly into my eyes and whispered four words that destroyed something inside me.
"Never touch me in public."
And now, watching another man treat me with the tenderness he'd refused to show for six years, Roman was about to discover something his money, power, and reputation couldn't fix.
He could command an entire criminal empire.
But he could no longer command my heart.
My name is Serena Duca.
I'm thirty-four years old, and for six years, I was married to one of the most dangerous men in Chicago.
Roman Duca was forty-two, devastatingly handsome, and powerful enough to make politicians reconsider their words before speaking.
He controlled luxury hotels, shipping companies, private security firms, and an underground empire that stretched across the Midwest.
Men twice his size feared him.
Business rivals respected him.
Even federal investigators spoke his name carefully.
But I remembered a different Roman.
The man who once drove forty minutes through a thunderstorm because I'd mentioned craving strawberry cheesecake.
The man who kissed my forehead before important meetings.
The man who promised, on our wedding night, that no matter how dangerous his world became, I would never feel alone.
Somewhere along the way, that man disappeared.
And I spent six years waiting for him to return.
Six months earlier, everything changed at the Harrington Grand.
The children's literacy fundraiser occupied the hotel's forty-second-floor ballroom.
Three hundred guests mingled beneath enormous crystal chandeliers while Chicago glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I wore a burgundy evening gown chosen by Roman's assistant.
Not because Roman loved the color.
Because, according to his assistant, it would photograph beautifully beside his black tuxedo.
That afternoon, while getting ready, I'd discovered an old photograph tucked inside a drawer.
I was twenty-four, standing at a neighborhood education rally, wearing faded jeans and dirty sneakers.
My hair was a mess.
My cheeks were flushed.
And I was laughing so hard that my eyes were nearly closed.
I stared at that photograph for ten minutes.
Because I couldn't remember the last time I'd been that happy.
Before marrying Roman, I'd dreamed of opening community learning centers for children who couldn't afford tutoring.
I'd earned a graduate degree in education policy.
I'd wanted to build something meaningful.
Then I married a man who could buy entire buildings without checking their prices.
And somehow, I became a woman who needed permission to leave one.
At the gala, I played my role perfectly.
I smiled at politicians.
Remembered the names of businessmen's wives.
Complimented expensive jewelry.
And stood beside Roman while he discussed investments with men who barely acknowledged my existence.
For fifteen minutes, I helped entertain his associates.
When they finally walked away, Roman immediately checked his phone.
"Roman?"
"Hmm?"
"Would you dance with me?"
He didn't look up.
"Not tonight."
"You said that last time."
"I'm working, Serena."
I glanced across the ballroom.
An elderly couple danced slowly beneath the chandeliers.
The woman rested her cheek against her husband's shoulder.
He held her as though she were the most precious thing in the world.
They couldn't have cared less who was watching.
I felt something twist painfully inside my chest.
"Do you ever wonder what people think when they see us?" I asked.
"No."
"Not even a little?"
Roman slipped his phone into his pocket.
"Why would I care what strangers think about my marriage?"
I wanted to ask whether he cared what his wife thought.
But I already knew the answer.
Twenty minutes later, I stepped onto a narrow balcony.
Cold October wind swept across my bare shoulders.
Below me, Chicago traffic flowed through the streets like rivers of light.
For the first time that evening, I could breathe.
Then the balcony door opened.
Roman appeared behind me.
"You disappeared."
"I walked twenty feet."
"You know what I mean."
I turned toward him.
He looked immaculate in his tailored tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly styled, his expression unreadable.
Once, that face had made my heart race.
Now it made me nervous.
"Roman, can I ask you something?"
"Make it quick."
I swallowed.
"Do you still love me?"
His expression hardened.
"What kind of question is that?"
"A simple one."
"We've been married six years."
"That wasn't my question."
He exhaled impatiently.
"Serena, I don't have time for this."
And suddenly, something inside me cracked.
"Of course you don't."
His eyes narrowed.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you have time for everyone except me."
"Careful."
I almost laughed.
Even here, alone with my husband, I had to be careful.
"I can't remember the last time you touched me without needing something," I whispered.
"Serena."
"I can't remember the last time you held my hand. Or kissed me because you wanted to. Or looked at me like I was someone you were happy to see."
"You're being emotional."
"I'm being lonely."
He looked away.
And somehow, that hurt worse than anger.
Through the glass doors, I could still see the elderly couple dancing.
I wondered whether they had spent their lives choosing each other.
Or whether the woman had once stood on a balcony begging her husband to notice her, too.
"I'm your wife, Roman."
"I'm aware."
Two words.
Cold.
Impatient.
Almost cruel.
But I wasn't ready to surrender.
Not yet.
I took one small step closer.
Then I reached out and gently rested my hand against his forearm.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't inappropriate.
It was the simplest gesture a wife could offer her husband.
A touch.
A silent request for closeness.
Roman looked down at my fingers.
His entire expression changed.
Then he raised his eyes to mine.
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"Never touch me in public."
I immediately pulled my hand away.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
"What?"
He straightened his cuff.
"You heard me."
I stared at him.
"Roman, I'm your wife."
"And I have a reputation to maintain."
The words struck harder than I expected.
"Your reputation?"
"Public displays of affection make people believe they can manipulate me through you."
I searched his face for some sign of regret.
There was none.
"So loving me makes you weak?"
"Don't twist my words."
"Then explain them."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"I won't have my men watching me behave like some lovesick fool. Understand?"
I looked at my hand.
The same hand he'd held while exchanging wedding vows.
The same hand he'd kissed when he promised to protect me.
Now he acted as though touching him was something shameful.
"Perfectly," I whispered.
Roman studied me for a moment.
Then his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
"I need to take this."
And he walked back inside.
He didn't notice that I stayed on the balcony for another twenty minutes.
He didn't see me remove my wedding ring and hold it against the cold moonlight.
And he certainly didn't hear the promise I made to myself.
I would never beg my husband to love me again.
Over the next six months, I changed.
Quietly.
I stopped waiting for Roman to come home.
Stopped asking about his meetings.
Stopped choosing dresses based on what he preferred.
I reopened the educational foundation I'd abandoned after our wedding.
I hired an attorney to review my personal finances.
I began visiting community centers across Chicago.
And slowly, I remembered the woman I'd been before becoming Mrs. Roman Duca.
Roman barely noticed.
Until the night of the Winter Children's Foundation Gala.
I arrived wearing an emerald-green silk gown.
Not one his assistant selected.
One I'd chosen myself.
My hair fell in soft waves over my shoulders, and for the first time in years, I felt beautiful without wondering whether Roman would approve.
That evening, I was introduced to Alexander Hayes.
Thirty-seven.
A respected philanthropist.
Founder of a nonprofit that provided educational scholarships to underprivileged children.
And, most importantly, a man who actually listened when I spoke.
We spent twenty minutes discussing my plans for a new learning center.
He asked thoughtful questions.
Remembered my answers.
And when I mentioned how difficult it had been to secure funding, he smiled.
"Serena, what you're building matters."
I stared at him.
It had been so long since someone said something like that.
"Thank you."
"No. Thank you. Chicago needs people who still care."
Then the orchestra began playing.
Alexander offered his hand.
"Would you honor me with a dance?"
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because six years of marriage had taught me to be afraid of ordinary kindness.
Then I looked across the ballroom.
Roman stood near the bar, surrounded by associates and security.
He wasn't watching me.
Of course he wasn't.
I turned back to Alexander.
"I'd love to."
He smiled and gently placed his hand at my waist as we stepped onto the dance floor.
And thirty feet away, Roman Duca finally looked up.
His expression went completely blank.
One of his bodyguards stopped mid-sentence.
Another slowly moved his hand toward his earpiece.
Roman's closest associate whispered something.
Roman didn't answer.
He was staring at Alexander's hand.
At the way I smiled.
At the way another man was giving me the attention I'd spent six years begging my husband to offer.
Then Roman set down his glass.
And started walking toward us.
Alexander noticed the sudden silence spreading through the ballroom.
"Serena," he murmured, "is something wrong?"
I followed his gaze.
Roman was approaching.
His jaw was clenched.
His dark eyes were fixed on me.
And for the first time in our marriage, I didn't look away.
He stopped directly in front of us.
"Take your hand off my wife."
Alexander immediately stepped back.
But I remained where I was.
"Roman," I said calmly, "you're making a scene."
His eyes flashed.
"Come with me. Now."
I looked at the hand he extended.
Six months earlier, I would have taken it without hesitation.
Tonight, I simply shook my head.
"No."
The silence became absolute.
Roman stared at me as though I'd spoken a language he didn't understand.
"Excuse me?"
I lifted my chin.
"You told me never to touch you in public."
His face changed.
For one brief moment, something resembling regret crossed his expression.
Then I delivered the words that made Chicago's most feared mafia boss forget how to breathe.
"So tell me, Roman..."
I slowly slipped my wedding ring from my finger.
"Why should I still let you touch me?"
And as I held the ring between us, Roman reached into his jacket.
He withdrew a small velvet box.
My breath caught when he opened it.
Inside was a diamond ring I had never seen before.
But beneath the ring lay something far more shocking.
A photograph.
A photograph of me.
Taken six months earlier.
On the balcony of the Harrington Grand.
And standing in the shadows behind me was a man I recognized.
A man who had just spent twenty minutes dancing with me.
Alexander Hayes.
Roman looked into my eyes.
His voice was barely audible.
"Serena, I need you to listen carefully."
Then he said something that turned my blood cold.
"The night I told you never to touch me in public..."
May you like
He glanced toward Alexander.
"...was the night I discovered someone had put a price on your life."
