“Who Got You Those Flowers?” the Jealous Mafia Boss Asked His Secretary—Her Answer Made Him Freeze

Callum didn't answer with words.

His hand reached out, fingers sliding into the dark waves of her hair, gripping the back of her head with an intensity that pulled a sharp gasp from her lips. He pulled her forward, closing the distance between them, and crushed his mouth against hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was the violent release of three years of repressed obsession, a collision of ownership, anger, and absolute desperation.

Hazel stiffened for half a second—an instinctual resistance to being claimed—before her hands came up, grabbing the lapels of his white dress shirt. Her fingers knotted into the expensive cotton, pulling him closer, her mouth opening against his with an equal, ravenous hunger.

A low, guttural sound tore from Callum’s throat. He backed her up against the cold glass of the panoramic window, his body pinning her against the view of the city three hundred feet below. Outside, lightning fractured the black clouds over the lake, illuminating the room in brilliant, stark flashes of white light.

Hazel kissed him like a woman who had been starving in silence. For thirty-six months, she had watched him command armies of ruthless men, had watched him break enemies with a signature or a bullet, all while maintaining her pristine, untouched detachment. But beneath that tailored corporate armor was a woman who knew every dark, twisted corner of his soul—and wanted it anyway.

Callum’s hands moved down her back, tracing the curve of her spine through the slick silk of her dress. His mouth moved from her lips to her jawline, down to the sensitive hollow beneath her ear where the scent of bergamot was strongest.

“You drove me insane today,” he growled against her skin, his teeth lightly grazing the line of her throat. “Seeing those damn flowers on your desk. Thinking some pathetic civilian had his hands on you.”

Hazel tilted her head back, exposing her throat to him, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. “He didn't touch me, Callum,” she breathed, her voice ragged and breathless. “He never touched me.”

“He looked at you,” Callum muttered, lifting her slightly, pressing her deeper against the glass until she could feel the cold pane through the thin fabric of her dress. “That was enough to get him killed.”

“You’re a monster,” she whispered, but her lips sought his again, pulling him down into another searing, breathless kiss that tasted of champagne and raw adrenaline.

Callum broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against hers. His dark eyes searched her face in the dim light, looking for any trace of regret, any hint of retreat.

There was none. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes burning with an unmasked intensity that matched his own.

“Why didn't you leave?” Callum asked, his voice rough and low. “A year ago. When the feds raided the distribution hub. You could have walked away with immunity. You could have taken three million dollars from the Swiss escrow account and disappeared to Europe.”

Hazel’s hands smoothed over his chest, feeling the heavy, thunderous beat of his heart beneath his ribs.

“Because out there, Callum, men are weak,” she said softly, her gaze holding his without flinching. “They hide behind polite manners, expensive suits, and pretty bouquets. They pretend they’re civilized until things get hard. But you... you never pretended to be anything other than what you are.”

She reached up, her thumb brushing against the jagged white scar that ran along his jawline—a remnant of a knife fight on the docks five years ago.

“I don't want a civilian, Callum,” she whispered. “I never did.”

Callum’s expression softened, a rare, profound vulnerability cracking through his hardened exterior. He lifted his hand, cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip.

“You’re the only thing in this city I can't replace, Hazel,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, quiet confession. “I don't care about the shipping lines. I don't care about the money. If I lost you, I’d burn Chicago to the ground just to keep warm.”

Before Hazel could answer, the sharp, shrill chirp of an encrypted satellite radio shattered the intimate silence of the penthouse.

The device sat on the kitchen counter, its red LED light blinking frantically.

Callum stiffened. The romantic haze dissolved in an instant, replaced by the cold, lethal reflex of a battlefield commander.

He stepped back from Hazel, smoothing the front of his shirt, and walked over to the counter. He hit the speaker button.

“Speak.”

Marco’s voice came through, strained, breathless, and punctuated by the sharp, echoing crack-crack-crack of automatic gunfire in the background.

“Boss! We got a situation at Pier 14!”

Callum’s jaw snapped shut. “Report.”

“It’s not Moretti’s crew,” Marco shouted over the roar of an engine and another volley of gunshots. “It’s federal tactical units! FBI hostage rescue and Homeland Security! They bypassed the port gates with a Department of Justice warrant! They’re seizing container 402 right now!”

Hazel gasped, stepping up beside Callum, her eyes wide with shock. “Container 402? That’s not a logistics container. That’s the offshore hardware server containing the entire ten-year financial history of Sullivan Enterprise!”

Callum slammed his fist onto the marble island, the stone cracking beneath the force of the blow.

“Who signed the warrant, Marco?” Callum demanded, his voice shaking with absolute rage.

“I don't know, boss!” Marco yelled through the static. “They had inside access codes! They had the biometric overrides for the security locks! Nobody had those codes except you and—”

Marco’s sentence cut off as the radio line went completely dead, replaced by the flat, ominous drone of white noise.

Callum turned slowly.