Roman leaned back against the plush headboard, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as the early morning light poured into the room, bathing everything in a soft, golden glow. His dark eyes wandered to her sleeping form—hair tousled, sheets tangled, her delicate features relaxed in a way that would disappear the second she woke up. Dio mio, I’ve really done it now, he thought, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Months of plotting, strings pulled, and a perfectly-timed Vegas detour had led to this moment. Mrs. Roman DeLuca, right here in his bed.

He shook his head, half in disbelief, half in pride. Her family’s gonna fucking kill me. No, scratch that—they’ll hire someone to kill me. The thought made him grin wider. The Fiorentinos—royalty in the underworld—and I’ve gone and married their precious principessa. Yeah, this will go over well.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, the memory of last night flickering in his mind like an old film. The glittering lights of the party, the heartbreak written all over her face, the way she tried to laugh it off while holding back tears. Her ex-fiancé, the smug prick, had been an easy target. Roman had made sure the breakup was public and irreversible. One dance, a few too many drinks, and some expertly whispered sweet nothings later, she was laughing—really laughing—for the first time all night.

And then came his favorite part. I didn’t just steal the dance; I stole the whole goddamn night. Before she knew it, we were saying vows to a judge I paid off in cash. He chuckled to himself. The look on her face when she realizes she’s married? Priceless. Though, I probably need to duck when she throws something at me. Or worse.