The Accidental Match: A Mafia Romance Novel

Pasta, Secrets, And Shared ScarsI tried to refuse. I insisted that I needed to take Lily home, wash her hands, check her temperature, and perhaps check myself into a psychiatric ward for nearly dying of a heart attack. But Dominic Moretti did not take no for an answer. It wasn't spoken with arrogance; it was simply the reality of a man who was accustomed to the universe bending to his will.

Within minutes, the waiter had cleared the cold espresso and replaced it with an extravagant spread of truffle pasta, roasted vegetables, and a steaming plate of chicken Milanese for Lily.

"Eat," Dominic instructed, sliding a warm plate toward me. "You’ve been standing on your feet for twelve hours. Your hands are still shaking."

I looked down at my hands. They were indeed trembling. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. I looked across the table at Lily, who was happily devouring strawberries dipped in whipped cream, completely unfazed by the fact that she was dining with a mob boss in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

"Why didn't you call security?" I asked quietly, keeping my voice low so Lily wouldn't hear. "Or throw us out? You were stood up for a high-profile blind date by a woman who didn't show, and instead, you get ambushed by a five-year-old."

Dominic took a slow sip of his sparkling water. The amber light caught the sharp planes of his face, highlighting a faint, pale scar slicing through his left eyebrow—a reminder that his life was far removed from the sterile halls of St. Catherine’s.

"I don't like being stood up," Dominic admitted, his eyes fixing on mine with an intense, unsettling clarity. "When Grace told me you were an ER nurse who raised her daughter alone after losing your husband three years ago, I was curious. When you didn't show, I assumed you had bailed because you thought I was a monster."

"Well, you are rumored to be one," I pointed out, my nurse's bluntness overriding my fear.

A low, rich chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Fair enough. But when your daughter walked through that door, soaked, holding a bald stuffed rabbit, and announced that her mommy was saving lives while crying over missing dinner... I realized you weren't avoiding me. You were drowning."

The raw accuracy of his words struck me like a physical blow. Drowning. That was exactly what I had been doing for three years since Mark died. Working double shifts, paying New York rent, missing bedtime stories, and pretending I had it all under control.