Page 2 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

two

. . .

Atlas

I watch her walk away, this blonde baker with her flour-dusted jeans and nervous eyes, and something primal clicks into place inside me.

Mine. The thought comes unbidden, a certainty as solid as bullet casings.

I haven't felt this instant hunger for a woman since—fuck, maybe ever.

There's something about her softness, the way she tried to hide her trembling fingers, the flush that climbed her neck when I looked at her too long.

Vanilla and sugar cling to her skin like a promise, but underneath that sweetness is something else.

Something that calls to the darkness in me.

Her ancient car disappears down the drive, but I don't move from the doorway until the gates close behind her. Marco approaches from the shadows of the hall, his footsteps deliberately loud. He knows better than to sneak up on me.

"Boss? Donovan's waiting in your office."

I turn, still tasting that petit four on my tongue. Sweet, with a hint of bitter dark chocolate. Like her . Sweet on the surface, but with depths.

"Run a full background on Fern Whitaker. Owner of Sweet Ferns bakery."

Marco doesn't blink, doesn't question. "How deep?"

"Everything. Family, financials, daily habits, exes. I want to know what she eats for breakfast and which side of the bed she sleeps on."

His eyebrow twitches slightly—the most surprise he'll ever show. "That thorough?"

"And put two men on her. Discreet. She shouldn't know they're there."

"She a problem?"

The question grates against my nerves. I pin him with a look that makes him step back. "She's not a problem. She's mine. Make sure nothing happens to her."

"Yes, boss." He retreats, already pulling out his phone.

In my office, Donovan waits with the shipment manifests I requested.

Business continues—the movement of goods through my territory, the protection payments from local establishments, the delicate politics of power.

But through it all, I'm distracted by thoughts of pale blue eyes and trembling hands.

Innocent. She's so fucking innocent. The word is an aphrodisiac after years of women who know exactly who and what I am, who come to me for the danger or the money or the power. Fern looked at me and saw something that frightened her. And still, she stood her ground. Still, she met my eyes.

I want to consume her. To ruin her, and keep her, and protect her all at once.

Hours later, when business is concluded, I find myself saying: "I have another job tonight. Personal supervision."

Donovan knows better than to ask questions. This is unusual—I don't typically handle street-level exchanges anymore. But something tells me to go, the same instinct that's kept me alive in this business for fifteen years.

Night falls, bringing with it a fine mist that turns the city lights into smeared halos. The warehouse district is empty except for the occasional security guard or homeless person seeking shelter. My car purrs to a stop two blocks from the meeting point, dark and unobtrusive.

"Check the perimeter," I tell Vex, my most trusted lieutenant.

He slips out, a shadow among shadows.

Tonight should be simple. A new supplier wants territory rights. They bring a sample, we negotiate terms, money changes hands. Standard operation, barely worth my time, but I've learned to listen to my gut.

My phone buzzes. A text from Marco:

Subject closed bakery at 7:30. Now making delivery to Marceau Hotel, 2 blocks from your position.

My heart rate kicks up. Fern. Here. Tonight. Near my deal. The coincidence is too neat, feels wrong immediately. I text back:

Eyes on her every second. No one approaches.

Copy.

Vex returns. "All clear, but the supplier brought extra muscle. Four guys, all armed."

I check my watch. Five minutes to the meeting. "Let's make this quick."

We approach the warehouse, senses hyperalert.

Two men stand outside, hands inside their jackets—not even trying to hide that they're carrying.

I nod to them as we pass. Inside, the supplier waits—Ramon Silva, a new player trying to expand north.

He's flanked by two more men, all tension and thinly veiled ambition.

"Vale," he acknowledges me, extending his hand. "Appreciate you coming personally."

I shake it briefly. "Let's see what you're offering."

He gestures, and one of his men brings forward a metal case. Inside are neatly packaged samples—high-grade product, better than what's currently flowing through my territory. I examine it while Vex keeps his eyes on Silva's men.

"Price?" I ask.

Silva names a figure. I counter with one thirty percent lower. He laughs, counteroffers. The dance begins.

Ten minutes in, my phone vibrates again. Marco:

Subject completed delivery, now walking back to car. Parked on Westlake, east side.

Fuck. That's too close. I need to wrap this up.

"Forty percent of profit, exclusive distribution rights in the northern district," I say to Silva, cutting through the negotiation. "Take it or leave it."

His eyes narrow. "Forty-five."

"Forty-two."

"Deal." He extends his hand again.

That's when I hear it—the crackle of a radio, a voice too low to make out the words. Silva freezes, his men suddenly alert. Someone else is here.

"You brought cops?" Silva snarls, reaching for his weapon.

"Stand down," I snap. "This isn't my play."

But it's too late. His man draws, Vex responds, and suddenly the warehouse erupts in gunfire. I dive for cover behind a stack of pallets, drawing my own weapon. Bullets splinter wood around me.

"Vale, you fucking set me up!" Silva shouts over the chaos.

"I don't work with cops," I snarl back, squeezing off two shots toward the sound of his voice.

Glass shatters—a window. More shots, a scream of pain. Police sirens in the distance.

"Move!" I shout to Vex. "Back exit!"

We run through the dark warehouse, staying low. Outside, rain has started, turning the alley slick. I scan for threats, for the source of the ambush.

And there she is.

Standing frozen under a streetlight, umbrella hanging useless at her side, rain soaking her blonde hair. Fern. Her eyes are wide with horror, fixed on the warehouse door where Silva's men are now spilling out, bleeding and shooting behind them.

"No," I whisper, the word punched out of me by fear. Not for myself—for her. She's seen everything. She's in the middle of a fucking gang war and police raid.

I move without thinking, sprinting toward her as bullets ping off the pavement. She sees me coming and takes a step back, pure terror on her face. But I'm faster, stronger, more determined.

I reach her just as shots explode behind us. My body curls around hers instinctively as I drag her into the shadows of a loading dock.

"Don't scream," I growl against her ear, pinning her back to my chest. "Don't move."

She's trembling violently, her pulse a frantic butterfly under my palm. I can feel her heart hammering, her breath coming in panicked gasps.

"Atlas?" she whispers, her voice broken with fear. She knows me. Recognizes me even in this chaos. Something possessive and hungry flares inside me.

"I've got you," I promise, tightening my hold. "You're safe."

Sirens wail closer. More shots. Someone screams. I press her deeper into the shadows, shielding her with my body. She's so small against me, soft and warm despite the rain. I breathe in the scent of her hair—vanilla and sugar, now mixed with rain and fear.

"What's happening?" she asks, barely audible. "Those men—I saw—there was blood?—"

"Shh." I press my lips to her temple, a instinctive comfort. "Don't talk about what you saw. Never talk about it."

Her breathing hitches. She understands the implications.

I check my phone. A text from Vex: "Clear. South exit. Car waiting."

"We need to move," I tell her. "Stay close to me."

"No, I—I can't—" She tries to pull away, but my arm is iron around her waist.

"Fern, listen to me." I turn her to face me, gripping her shoulders. Rain streams down her face, her eyelashes spiky with moisture. She looks terrified and beautiful and breakable. "You were never here. You didn't see anything. But others saw you. Do you understand what that means?"

She shakes her head, but her eyes say she does.

"If they think you're a witness, they'll silence you." My fingers tighten on her arms. "I can't let that happen."

"I'll go to the police?—"

"The police were just part of this mess. You think they'll protect you? From Silva's people? From whoever set up this ambush?"

Her face crumples. "What am I supposed to do?"

I wipe a raindrop—or maybe a tear—from her cheek with my thumb. "Come with me. Now."

She hesitates, looking toward the street, weighing her options. There are none, but I let her come to that conclusion herself.

"Okay," she whispers finally.

I keep her tucked against my side as we move through the shadows toward the waiting car. Vex sees us coming and his eyes widen slightly at the sight of Fern, but he knows better than to question me. He slides into the driver's seat while I usher Fern into the back, following her in.

She huddles against the door, as far from me as possible. Her clothes are soaked, her body shivering with cold and fear. I shrug out of my jacket and reach for her.

"Don't touch me," she says, the words surprisingly steady despite her trembling.

"You're freezing."

"I'm fine."

I drape the jacket over her anyway. She flinches but doesn't push it away.

"Where are you taking me?" she asks as the car pulls away, melting into the rainy night.

"Home."

"Your home or mine?"

"Mine. You can't go back to yours. Not tonight. Maybe not for a while."

Her head whips toward me. "What? No. I have a business—a life?—"

"A life you want to keep." The words come out harder than I intended. "Fern, listen to me. You're in danger. What you saw tonight?—"

"I didn't see anything!" Her voice rises with panic. "I was just delivering pastries to the hotel! I was walking back to my car!"

"But Silva's men saw you. They'll assume you're a witness."

She presses her hands to her face. "This can't be happening."

I watch her falling apart and make my decision. One that will protect her. One that will give me what I want.

"There's a way to keep you safe," I say quietly. "A way to make sure no one touches you."

She looks at me through her fingers, suspicious and hopeful at once. "How?"

"Be my wife."

The car fills with silence so absolute I can hear the rain on the roof.

"What?" she whispers.

"Marry me. Become a Vale. No one would dare touch you then. And—" I lean closer, into her space. "A wife can't testify against her husband. You'd be protected legally too."

"You're insane." She shrinks further against the door. "I barely know you!"

"You know enough." I catch her chin, forcing her to look at me. "You know I can protect you. You know what happens to witnesses."

Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for cruelty, for any reason to refuse. I let her look. I have nothing to hide—not my desire, not my determination to possess her, not my willingness to do whatever it takes to keep her.

"This is crazy," she breathes, but there's less conviction in her voice.

"It's survival." My thumb traces her lower lip, and I feel her shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with cold or fear. "And it's the only offer you're getting."

The car turns onto the road leading to my estate. In the distance, lightning flashes, illuminating her face—pale, damp, beautiful in its vulnerability.

She closes her eyes briefly, defeat and acceptance washing over her features.

"Okay," she whispers. "God help me. Okay."

I pull her against my chest, feeling her surprise and resistance before she surrenders, melting against me. "No one will ever hurt you," I promise against her hair. "You're mine now. And I protect what's mine."

She doesn't respond, just trembles in my arms. But it's enough. She's agreed. She's mine.

And I’ll never let her go.