The Mafia King's Untouchable Rose

The crack of the customized Beretta shattered the warehouse’s dead silence. Twice.

​Bang. Bang.

​The heavy recoil vibrated up my forearm, a familiar grounding ache. The gun screamed its deadly verdict, echoing off the damp walls of the abandoned shipyard.

The leader of the Coyle syndicate—or rather, what was left of his skull—slumped forward against the pillar. Slowly, his lifeless weight dragged him to the floor, leaving a glistening red trail in his wake.

​Everyone in this godforsaken city needed to understand a fundamental, undeniable truth: you do not cross Mr. Saga Ronway and live to see another sunrise.

​I lowered the smoking barrel. The acrid stench of cordite mixed heavily with the cloying scent of fresh blood.

It was a perfume I had worn for over a decade. As the right hand of the Ronway empire, orchestrating death was no longer a chore; it was an art form.

I stood over the corpse, watching the dark pool expand across the cracked cement, and let out a satisfied chuckle.

​"Very good, Rose."

​The voice came from the shadows, smooth as aged bourbon and just as dangerous.

Saga stepped into the light of the single overhead bulb. He wore a midnight-blue overcoat, untouched by the grime of the execution room.

His dark eyes flicked from the dead man to me, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rare gentle smile.

​"You’ve really surprised me all these years with your growth," he murmured, his gaze tracing the steady line of my gun arm.

"You used to be so afraid of the noise."

​I holstered the weapon at my hip, the leather snapping shut with a sharp click.

"Saga, you haven’t replied to me yet." I offered him a bold, lingering wink.

​A collective gasp rippled through the half-dozen armed guards flanking the perimeter. Of everyone in this vast, ruthless organization, only I possessed the audacity to address the boss by his given name.

​"What?" Saga’s dark brows furrowed. The coolness in his expression fractured into genuine confusion.

​"You don't remember?" I stared at him intensely, stepping over the dead man’s boots to close the distance between us.

My chest tightened. It happened like this every single time. I would pour my heart out, lay my devotion bare, wait in agonizing silence for his reply, and by the next dawn, he would act as though the conversation never existed.

​He offered nothing but a blank stare. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

​"I knew you would forget." I scoffed, forcing a sharp exhale to push down the rising sting in my throat.

"It's okay. I'll just have to remind you again."

​Without missing a beat, I climbed onto a chair near the center of the room. The vantage point put me slightly above him. I looked down into those abyss-deep eyes, feeling the familiar, intoxicating rush of reckless love.

​"Be my boyfriend!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, the words bouncing off the corrugated iron roof.

I flashed him the softest, most vulnerable smile I could muster. "Will you?"

​Below me, Saga remained completely nonchalant. Not a single muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Stop it, Rose. I told you, don't act this crazy."

​"I can be crazier," I fired back without hesitation, leaning forward.

"For you."

​A suppressed snort broke the tension. One of the newer gang members couldn't hold back a laugh, quickly turning it into a violent cough when Saga’s frigid glare snapped toward him.

​"Rose, you've been chasing the boss for over five years now. Can you just stop?" Hilton, Saga's left-hand man, stepped forward.

"It’s embarrassing."

​"What do you know, Hilton?" I hopped down from the crate, marching over to smack his shoulder with sarcastic force.

"You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take."

​"Right, right. Rose is a perfect match for the boss," a few of the older crew members chirped in from the shadows, a teasing chorus of rough voices.

"She’s the only one who can handle him."

​"Shut up. All of you."

​The temperature in the room plummeted. The teasing instantly died. The men straightened their spines, suddenly finding the bloodstained floor fascinating.

​Saga crossed the space between us in two long strides. His large hand clamped firmly around my wrist. The sudden physical contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

He pulled me toward the doors of the exit.

​"Hilton," Saga called out over his shoulder, not breaking his stride.

"Clean this mess up. Remember to leave absolutely no trace behind. The police will be sniffing around the docks by morning."

​"Yes, Boss," Hilton answered dutifully.

​The cold night air hit my face the second we pushed through the doors. The damp chill of the harbor whipped my hair around my face.

"Ahhh... Saga," I pressed, jogging slightly to keep up with his long strides toward the waiting armored Maybach.

"I've been asking you for a long time now. Do you have a girlfriend? Just give me a straight answer."

​He reached the vehicle, yanking the heavy passenger door open. He didn't look at me as he practically shoved me into the plush interior.

​"Don't think so much," he ordered smoothly, slamming the door shut.

​The engine screamed to life with a ferocious roar as he slid into the driver's seat. He slammed the transmission into gear, and the massive car tore away from the shipyard.

​I studied his flawless side profile in the dim light of the dashboard. The sharp line of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose, the ruthless perfection that had captivated me for a decade. Knowing he hated being stared at, I eventually turned my gaze outward.

​The neon-lit streets of the city flashed by the tinted window. The passing of the amber street lamps dragged my mind backward, pulling me into the dark waters of my past.

I was only ten years old when the rival cartel slaughtered my parents in our tiny apartment. I had hidden in the cramped space beneath the sink, clutching my knees, waiting to die.

Instead, the Ronway family had breached the door. Saga’s father had found me, a shaking, blood-splattered orphan, and took me in. I grew up in their sprawling estate, training in the shadows, learning to shoot before I learned to drive.

Ever since the day a teenage Saga handed me my first custom combat knife, I had followed him blindly. My loyalty morphed into an all-consuming love. I was his weapon, his shield, and—I foolishly hoped—his future.

​"Why are you so silent now?" Saga’s deep voice cut through the hum of the engine, pulling me back to the present.

​I blinked, snapping out of my heavy thoughts.

"Just thinking how fast time flies. It feels like yesterday we were just kids stealing whiskey from your father's study."

​He didn't laugh but his grip on the steering wheel relaxed slightly.

"Call Hilton when we get back. Tell him to book the Grand Azure Hotel. I'm throwing a banquet this evening."

​"Tonight?" I shifted in my seat, surprised by the suddenness.

"What's the occasion?"

​Saga kept his eyes locked on the rain-slicked road ahead.

"I am going to introduce someone special to the syndicate." He paused, finally turning his head to look at me, his gaze holding an unreadable intensity.

"I've prepared an outfit for you. It’s already in your quarters. Dress up nicely for the party, Rose. It’s an important night."

​My breath hitched in my throat. Someone special. He prepared my clothes. He wanted me dressed perfectly for an introduction. The puzzle pieces slammed together in my mind, forming a beautiful picture.

​"Really?" I whispered.

"I'll... I'll call them immediately."

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