I’m Too Big for You＂She Said — The Ruthless Boss Pinned Her to the Wall＂Try Me＂

Love in the underworld isn’t soft. It doesn’t arrive with flowers or apologies. It smells like motor oil, bruised knuckles, and gunpowder. Sadie knew exactly what she was. Six feet of hard muscle and bad attitude. A woman who hit back and never looked pretty doing it. She thought a man like Roman Gallagher, a kingmaker in bespoke wool, would look right through her. She was wrong. Because when monsters look for a queen, they don’t want a princess. They want a survivor.

The air inside the garage tasted like rust and cheap coffee. Rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof. A relentless, deafening rhythm that usually helped Sadie think. Tonight, it just gave her a headache. She was underneath a gutted sixty-nine Mustang. A heavy iron wrench gripped in her oil-stained hands. Sweat tracked through the grime on her forehead. At six-foot-one, her frame was built for labor. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, and arms corded with the kind of muscle that only came from hauling engine blocks and fighting for every inch of space she occupied in the world.

She wasn’t delicate. She wasn’t soft. And she certainly wasn’t in the mood for company. The heavy roll-up door rattled. It wasn’t the wind. Sadie didn’t scramble out. She took her time giving the sway bar one last savage torque before tossing the wrench onto the concrete. It landed with a sharp, ringing clang. She grabbed a rag, wiping the worst of the grease from her fingers, and slid out on the creeper. Three men stood in the entryway. Two were human brick walls wearing cheap leather and carrying the unmistakable bulk of concealed firearms under their arms.

The man in the center was different. Roman Gallagher didn’t look like a mob boss. He didn’t wear flashy jewelry or chew on cigars. He wore a charcoal wool suit that fit his lean, razor-sharp frame with terrifying precision. His hair was dark, neatly cut, and his eyes were the color of wet slate. He stood perfectly still. The damp chill of the night seemed to roll right off him. Garage is closed, Sadie said. Her voice was a low, raspy drawl. She stood up, reaching her full height, deliberately rolling her shoulders. Most men took a step back when she did that. She towered over the two goons. Roman, however, held his ground. He was perhaps an inch taller than her, which was a rarity in her world.

I’m not here for a tune-up, Roman said. His voice was quiet. It didn’t need volume to command the room. You’re Sadie Quinn. Depends on who’s asking. Roman Gallagher. Sadie stopped wiping her hands. The rag suddenly felt heavy. Everyone in the South End knew that name. Gallagher ran the docks, the unions, and the loan sharks. He was a man who tore down neighborhoods and rebuilt them in his own image. My brother isn’t here, Sadie said flatly. She tossed the rag onto a nearby workbench. If you’re looking for Jimmy, you’re out of luck. He skipped town three weeks ago.

I know, Roman replied. He took a few steps forward, his expensive leather shoes stepping carefully over a puddle of transmission fluid. Jimmy owes me eighty thousand dollars. He left this garage as collateral. Sadie felt a cold knot pull tight in her stomach. That idiot, that absolute useless idiot. She had spent five years pulling this shop out of the red after their father died, working sixteen-hour shifts until her joints screamed, and Jimmy had signed it away for a quick payout at the card tables. This is my name on the deed, Sadie said, stepping forward. She closed the distance between them, utilizing her size. She was used to intimidating men. She loomed over him, close enough to smell the bergamot and expensive tobacco on his coat. Jimmy forged the signature. It won’t hold up in court.

Roman looked up at her. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His eyes tracked over her face, taking in the smudge of oil on her cheekbone, the fierce, defensive set of her jaw, the sheer, unapologetic bulk of her. A faint, almost imperceptible shift happened in his expression. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t disgust. It looked dangerously like curiosity. We don’t go to court, Ms. Quinn, Roman said softly. You know that. Then what? Sadie challenged, her voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. You going to have your boys break my legs? Take the shop by force? Good luck. I fought dirtier men than you for less.

The two goons shifted, their hands drifting toward their jackets. Roman raised a single finger. The men froze. I don’t break things that have value, Roman said, his gaze locked on hers. And I don’t bleed dry businesses that are actually turning a profit. I looked into your books, Sadie. You do good work. Fast, quiet, no questions asked. You specialize in rebuilding engines for cars that need to disappear. Sadie narrowed her eyes. I fix cars. Where they go after they leave my lot isn’t my business. It’s about to be, Roman said. He slipped his hands into his pockets. Eighty thousand is a lot of money. The bank would foreclose.

I am offering you a job. I already have a job. You have a debt, he corrected smoothly. You work for me now, directly. You maintain my fleet. You drive when I need a driver who won’t panic under fire. You do that and a percentage of your pay chips away at Jimmy’s debt. In two years, you’re clear. The garage is yours, free and clear. Sadie stared at him. She looked for the lie, the trap. Men like Roman Gallagher didn’t offer fair deals. They offered a rope and watched you hang yourself. But she looked around her shop, the peeling paint, the tools she’d inherited from her old man, the only piece of the world that belonged to her.

Two years, she repeated. Two years, Roman confirmed. She stepped even closer until their chests were inches apart. I don’t wear a uniform. I don’t fetch coffee. And if one of your gorillas disrespects me, I’ll break his jaw. Are we clear? Roman’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. I wouldn’t expect anything less. Be at the shipyard by six a.m. He turned and walked out into the rain, leaving Sadie standing in the damp, oily quiet, feeling like she had just made a deal with the devil.

The shipyard was a sprawling labyrinth of rust and steel. Cranes loomed like skeletal giants against the gray morning sky. Sadie pulled her beat-up truck through the main gate precisely at five fifty-five a.m. She killed the engine, grabbed her thermos of black coffee, and stepped out into the biting wind. She was dressed for work, heavy canvas cargo pants, steel-toed boots, and a thick flannel shirt rolled up over her forearms. She felt the eyes on her immediately. Dozens of dockworkers and Gallagher’s syndicate men paused their heavy lifting to stare. Sadie was used to the looks. It was the same everywhere she went. Men looked at her like she was an anomaly, a puzzle they couldn’t solve.

She wasn’t soft or curving in the places society demanded. She had calluses that could strike a match and shoulders broad enough to carry an engine block. They didn’t know whether to catcall her or fight her. Usually, it was a volatile mix of both. She ignored them, walking with heavy, purposeful strides toward the main warehouse office. Roman was already inside, sitting behind a scarred metal desk. He was in his shirt sleeves today, the expensive wool jacket draped over a chair. A leather shoulder holster was across his chest, the dark metal of a Glock resting against his ribs. He was reviewing a ledger, a pen spinning absentmindedly between his fingers. He didn’t look up as she entered, letting the heavy steel door slam shut behind her.

You’re early, he noted. I don’t like owing people, Sadie said, dropping her toolbox onto the floor with a heavy thud. So, let’s get to it. Where’s the fleet? Roman finally looked up. In the harsh fluorescent light of the office, she noticed the shadows beneath his eyes. The king of the underworld looked exhausted. Warehouse four. There are six armored SUVs. Two of them took heavy fire last week in a dispute with the Northside Crew. I need the engines overhauled, bulletproof glass replaced, and the chassis reinforced. I’ll need parts and privacy. I don’t want your meatheads hovering over me while I work.

Roman leaned back in his chair. You don’t like my men? I don’t like an audience, Sadie shot back. She crossed her arms, inadvertently flexing the heavy muscles of her biceps. Look, Gallagher, let’s get something straight. I know why I’m here. I’m a workhorse to you. That’s fine. I’m used to it. Just point me at the heavy lifting and stay out of my way. Roman went still. He studied her for a long moment, his slate gray eyes tracing the rigid posture of her spine, the defensive set of her jaw. Is that what you think you are? A workhorse?

It’s what I am, she said bluntly. I don’t have delusions of grandeur. I’m big, I’m loud, and I can fix anything with a motor. Now, give me the keys. He stood up slowly. He moved with a predatory grace that set her teeth on edge. He walked around the desk, stopping just a foot away from her. The height difference was marginal, but the energy in the room shifted violently. It was a suffocating pressure. I don’t employ workhorses, Sadie, Roman said quietly. I employ professionals. You’re here because you’re the best mechanic in this city. And because you’re the only person who didn’t stutter when a gun was drawn in your presence last night. Do not insult my intelligence by diminishing your own value.

Sadie swallowed hard. She wasn’t used to this. Insults she could handle. Threats she could brush off. But this cold, piercing validation, it rattled her. Just give me the keys, she repeated, her voice rougher than before. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy key ring. Instead of tossing it to her, he held it out. As she reached to take it, his fingers brushed against hers. His skin was warm, his grip firm. He didn’t pull away immediately. He looked down at their hands. His pale, unblemished skin against her grease-stained, scarred knuckles. He didn’t look repulsed. He looked fascinated.

Sadie snatched the keys away. Her heart hammering a sudden, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She turned on her heel and marched out of the office, desperate to get back to the familiar, uncomplicated world of spark plugs and transmission fluid. For the next three weeks, that became their routine. Sadie worked in warehouse four, covered in grease and sweat, wrestling with heavy machinery. Roman would check in on her twice a day. He rarely spoke. He would just stand in the doorway, watching her work. It drove her insane. She tried to provoke him. She played her heavy metal music loud enough to rattle the windows. She swore aggressively when a bolt stripped. She wiped grease on her face and clothes, leaning into her grittiest, roughest self. She wanted him to look away in disgust. She wanted him to treat her the way the rest of the world did, like a brute.

But Roman just watched. Sometimes, he would hand her a wrench when she reached out blindly. Sometimes, he would bring her a black coffee, setting it silently on the workbench. He never commented on her dirt. He never flinched at her temper. The tension between them grew thick and heavy, like a storm front rolling in over the harbor. It was only a matter of time before the lightning struck. It happened on a Tuesday night. Roman had insisted on taking one of the newly repaired SUVs out for a stress test. He wanted Sadie in the driver’s seat. It was supposed to be a simple drive to a warehouse in the industrial district to drop off a briefcase. They didn’t even make it to the parking lot.

Sadie was idling the massive, heavily armored vehicle in a dark alley when two black sedans boxed them in. The unmistakable pop of suppressed gunfire shattered the quiet night. Sparks showered the hood as bullets rained against the reinforced glass Sadie had just installed. Get your head down, Roman barked, drawing his weapon. Sadie didn’t panic. Her blood ran cold, her vision narrowing into a tunnel of sheer pragmatic focus. Hold on, she grunted. She slammed the SUV into reverse. Three tons of reinforced steel screamed backward, smashing into the sedan behind them. The impact threw them hard against their seat belts, but Sadie kept her foot glued to the gas. She heard the crunch of metal and the shatter of glass as she bulldozed the sedan out of the alley, scraping a shower of sparks against the brick walls.

Gunfire peppered the doors, the sound like heavy hail. Clear the lane, Roman shouted, rolling down his window just enough to return fire, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying calm. Sadie threw the transmission into drive, spinning the heavy steering wheel with terrifying strength. The SUV lurched forward, jumping the curb, smashing through a chain-link fence, and tearing onto the open street. She drove like a demon, weaving through industrial back roads, her massive hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled force. Ten minutes later, they tore into the underground garage of one of Roman’s safe houses.

The steel door rolled down behind them, plunging them into dimly lit silence. The SUV hissed, steam rising from the radiator. Sadie killed the engine. Her chest was heaving. The adrenaline which had carried her through the firefight suddenly vanished, leaving her hollowed out and shaking. She looked down at her hands. They were trembling. She unbuckled her seatbelt and shoved the door open, practically falling out of the cab. She paced the concrete floor, running a shaky, grease-stained hand through her hair. Are you hit? Roman’s voice cut through the ringing in her ears. He walked around the front of the vehicle. His suit was pristine, save for a dusting of shattered glass on his shoulder. He looked like he had just come from a board meeting, not a shootout.

No, Sadie gasped out. No, I’m fine. She wasn’t fine. A jagged piece of shrapnel from the side mirror had caught her upper arm when she had opened her window to check their clearance. Her sleeve was torn, thick dark blood seeping into the heavy canvas of her jacket. Roman saw it instantly. His eyes darkened. The calm facade shattered, replaced by something fierce and urgent. In three long strides, he was in front of her. Take the jacket off, he ordered. It’s just a scratch. I can patch it myself. Sadie, take it off. The command in his tone brokered no argument. Stubbornly, she peeled the heavy canvas jacket off, hissing as the fabric pulled against the bleeding gash on her bicep.

She stood there in a tight, sweat-stained tank top, feeling suddenly, horribly exposed. Roman stepped closer. He didn’t ask for permission. He reached out, his cool, long fingers wrapping gently around her thick bicep. The contrast was startling. His refined, elegant hands against her heavy, muscular, scarred arm. He examined the wound with intense focus. Sadie’s breath hitched. She hated this. She hated feeling vulnerable. She hated the way he was looking at her. Not with disgust, but with a fierce, burning protectiveness that she had never experienced in her entire life. Stop, she growled, pulling her arm out of his grasp. She took a step back, her back hitting the cold concrete wall of the garage.

Roman stepped right into her space, refusing to let her retreat. You need stitches. I said leave it alone, Sadie snapped. Her voice was too loud, echoing in the empty space. Her insecurities, battered and bruised by years of rejection, flared into aggressive defense. Just back off, Gallagher. I’m fine. I don’t need your delicate little hands patching me up. Roman’s eyes narrowed. What is your problem? My problem? Sadie laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. My problem is this whole setup. You looking at me like I’m some kind of puzzle. I’m not one of your high-society playthings, Roman. I’m not a delicate mob wife who’s going to faint at the sight of blood.

I never said you were. Then stop treating me like one. She threw her hands up, gesturing to her massive frame, her broad shoulders, her dirty clothes. Look at me. Look at what I am. I don’t fit in your pristine, bespoke world. I’m a mechanic. I break jaws. I’m too rough. I’m too ugly. And I’m too damn big for you. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine. Roman stared at her. The air between them crackled, thick with gunpowder, sweat, and something infinitely more dangerous.

Slowly, deliberately, Roman stepped forward. He didn’t stop until his chest was pressed against hers. Sadie gasped, her breath catching in her throat. She instinctively tried to push him back, but Roman didn’t budge. Instead, his hands came up, slamming flat against the concrete wall on either side of her head, caging her in entirely. He was leaning into her, his face inches from hers. The heat radiating off his body was intoxicating. He looked up at her, his eyes burning with a dark, predatory fire that completely unraveled her defensive bravado. Too big? Roman whispered, his voice dropping into a lethal, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down her spine. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up to her wide, startled eyes. Try me.

The air in the garage hung thick, tasting of evaporated coolant and the sharp tang of copper. Sadie couldn’t breathe. Roman’s weight was a solid, immovable reality against her. She was a woman who lived her life bracing for impact, expecting shoves, punches, or the heavy weight of a transmission block. She had never braced for this. He didn’t kiss her. That was the most agonizing part. He stayed exactly where he was, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled increments against hers. He let the words hang in the space between them. Try me. A challenge that tore right through the thick armor she wore every single day.

Slowly, Roman lowered his hands from the wall. He took a single step back, severing the point of contact. The cold air rushed in to fill the gap, and Sadie instantly missed the heat. Upstairs, Roman said. His voice had returned to its normal smooth cadence, though the gravelly undertone remained. There’s a medical kit in the bathroom. Sadie blinked, her mind struggling to switch gears from raw adrenaline to practical reality. She looked down at her arm. The cut was deep. The edges ragged where the mirrored glass had chewed through her skin. Blood was trickling in a steady warm line down to her elbow, dripping off the point to stain the concrete. I can do it, she muttered, her voice rough. She pushed off the wall, aggressively avoiding his gaze. Just point me to the kit.

Roman didn’t argue. He turned and walked toward the heavy steel door at the back of the garage, leading her up a flight of concrete stairs. The safe house apartment above was spartan, a leather couch, a heavy oak table, and a kitchen that looked like it had never boiled water. The bathroom was stark white, illuminated by harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights that offered nowhere to hide. Roman walked in, opened the mirror cabinet, and pulled out a metal tactical first aid box. He set it on the counter and unclasped the latches. Sadie hovered in the doorway, suddenly acutely aware of how she looked. She was covered in motor oil, drywall dust, and her own blood. Her tank top clung to her sweat-dampened torso. She felt like a stray dog tracking mud onto a freshly mopped floor.

Sit, Roman instructed, pointing to the closed toilet lid. I said I can, Sadie. He finally looked at her. The dark, predatory fire from the garage was banked, replaced by an ironclad authority. Sit down. Let me do this. She clamped her jaw shut. Arguing with him felt like punching water. She walked in and sat heavily, her thick thighs spreading slightly as she rested her elbows on her knees. Roman took off his suit jacket. He folded it with meticulous care and draped it over the towel rack. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing forearms that were lean but corded with dense, tight muscle. He wasn’t bulky, but there was a terrifying, coiled strength in him. He washed his hands thoroughly at the sink, the soap lathering bright white against his pale skin, before drying them and turning to the kit.

He pulled out a bottle of iodine, a heavy cotton pad, and a sealed suture pack. This is going to burn, he stated. I’ve had worse, Sadie replied flatly. Roman stepped between her knees. It was a fiercely intimate position. Sadie had to look up at him, her broad shoulders bracketed by his hips. He gripped her wrist with his left hand. His touch was firm, grounding her, while his right hand brought the iodine-soaked pad to her torn bicep. He pressed it directly into the open wound. Sadie didn’t scream, but she couldn’t stop the harsh, guttural hiss from escaping her teeth. Her entire body went rigid. The muscle in her arm instinctively flexed, hard as granite under his fingers. Roman didn’t flinch. He cleaned the wound with ruthless efficiency, wiping away the drying blood and grime.

You have a high pain tolerance, he noted, tossing the bloody pad into the trash. Occupational hazard. He opened the suture pack, retrieving the curved needle and the thread. Most people would be in shock after a firefight like that. Most people would have panicked and gotten us both killed in that alley. I’m not most people. No, Roman agreed softly. You’re not. He began to stitch. He didn’t offer a localized numbing shot. The kit didn’t have one, and they both knew she wouldn’t have taken it anyway. The needle pierced her skin with a sharp, sickening pinch. Sadie locked her eyes on the crisp collar of his shirt, focusing on the steady, rhythmic movement of his chest.

She expected him to be disgusted by the thick, scarred muscle of her arm. Men usually were. They liked soft things. They liked women who looked like they needed to be protected. But as Roman worked, tying off the first black knot, his thumb traced the edge of a jagged white scar near her shoulder. A souvenir from a blown transmission case two years ago. What happened here? he asked, his voice low, almost conversational. Transmission housing cracked under pressure. Took a piece of metal to the shoulder. Roman pulled the second stitch tight. You didn’t go to a hospital? Hospitals ask questions. Jimmy couldn’t afford the bill anyway.

Roman’s jaw tightened at the mention of her brother. He tied off the knot, his knuckles brushing against her bare skin. Jimmy is a liability. You carry his weight because you think no one else will carry yours. Sadie jerked her arm, but Roman’s grip was unyielding. The needle hung suspended. Don’t psychoanalyze me, Gallagher. You’re a mob boss, not a therapist. Just sew the damn hole shut. Roman looked down at her. The harsh overhead light caught the sharp angles of his face. I’m a man who recognizes an asset. And I’m a man who hates watching a valuable asset waste herself on a lost cause.

He finished the remaining stitches in silence. Seven neat, perfectly spaced black knots. He was meticulous. He didn’t rush, and he didn’t treat her like she was fragile. He treated her like a piece of high-performance machinery that required exact, demanding care. When he was done, he wrapped her arm tightly in a white gauze bandage, taping it down with quick, practiced motions. Keep it dry, he ordered, stepping back and breaking the proximity. He turned to wash his hands again. The blood loss will make you tired. You’re staying here tonight. Sadie stood up. The room tilted for a fraction of a second, a delayed reaction to the adrenaline crash and the sting of the needle. She braced her good hand on the counter. I have a dog to feed at the garage.

One of my men will feed the dog, Roman said, drying his hands. He tossed the towel onto the rack and turned to face her. You’re staying here, Sadie. That wasn’t a random drive-by. That was a targeted hit. They knew my route and they knew my vehicle. Sadie frowned, the pain in her arm momentarily forgotten. The Coretti crew? Likely. Roman’s eyes went dark, the slate gray turning to the color of wet asphalt. Which means there’s a leak in my operation. Until I find out who it is, you don’t leave my sight. Understand? She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him she could take care of herself, that she had been taking care of herself since she was sixteen years old. But she looked at the blood on her shirt and then at the cold, calculating fury in Roman’s eyes. Fine, she rasped.

Roman nodded once. There are clean clothes in the dresser. Take a shower. Lock the door. He walked out, leaving Sadie alone in the glaring white bathroom, her heart hammering a heavy, erratic beat against her ribs. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked battered, exhausted, and terrifyingly alive. Four days later, the underworld was bleeding. The hit in the alley had been the opening salvo. The Coretti family, tired of Gallagher’s iron grip on the harbor, had decided to make a play for the shipping lanes. Two of Roman’s warehouses had been torched. Three of his men were in the ICU. The city was holding its breath, waiting for the king to strike back.

Sadie was standing in the corner of Roman’s sprawling waterfront office. The room smelled of expensive cigars, stale coffee, and sweat. The massive mahogany table in the center was covered in blueprints, shipping manifests, and a scattered array of heavy weaponry. Roman stood at the head of the table. Flanking him were his two top lieutenants, Declan, a hulking Irishman with a face like a battered catcher’s mitt, and Russo, a sleek, sharply dressed enforcer who looked like a lawyer, but hit like a freight train. Sadie wore her usual work gear, heavy boots, dark cargo pants, and a black T-shirt that stretched tight across her chest and shoulders. The white bandage on her arm was a stark contrast to the dark fabric. She was the only woman in the room. She was also the largest person in the room, save for Declan.

Russo slammed a hand down on the blueprints. They’re using the old railyards on Fifth to move the guns. We hit them tonight. We take a dozen men, kick the doors in, and burn the supply. It’s a trap, Declan rumbled, rubbing his jaw. Coretti isn’t stupid. He knows we want blood for the alley hit. He’ll have heavily armed men waiting in the rafters. So we bring heavier arms, Russo shot back. He glanced over at Sadie, his upper lip curling into a faint, dismissive sneer. Boss, with all due respect, why is the grease monkey here? This is syndicate business. We’re talking strategy, not spark plugs.

Roman didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at Russo. He kept his eyes fixed on the map laid out before him. Sadie was in the alley. She drove the vehicle out of the kill zone. She earned her place in this room. She’s a mechanic, Russo argued, his voice tightening. She doesn’t know tactical. The sedans were modified, Sadie interrupted. Her voice was a low, heavy rumble that cut through the heated argument like a saw blade through cheap wood. The room went silent. Both Declan and Russo turned to stare at her. Sadie pushed off the wall and took two heavy steps toward the table. She didn’t shrink under their stares. She rolled her shoulders, making herself as massive and imposing as possible. She looked directly at Russo, her eyes flat and uncompromising.

What? Russo demanded. The black sedans in the alley, Sadie said, resting her large, grease-stained hands flat on the polished mahogany. They weren’t stock. The suspension was dropped and they were carrying a heavy payload in the rear. I heard the engines when they boxed us in. Turbocharged V8s, but they were running rich. Smelled like high-octane aviation fuel. Roman finally looked up from the map. A slow, dark satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He didn’t speak. He just watched her take the room apart. So what? Declan asked, his brow furrowing.

So, Sadie continued, tapping a thick finger against the blueprint of the city. You don’t run aviation fuel in a standard block unless you’re trying to outrun something very fast, very quickly. And you don’t drop the suspension if you’re planning on hiding out in the old railyards. The roads around Fifth are pure potholes and broken concrete. A dropped chassis carrying heavy weapons would bottom out in a block. They’d snap an axle before they ever reach the warehouse doors.

Silence stretched across the room. Russo looked at the map, then back at Sadie, his mouth slightly open. They aren’t at the railyards, Sadie concluded. She dragged her finger across the map, stopping at a stretch of newly paved industrial road on the west side of the river. They’re at the old textile mill. The roads are smooth, the access is immediate, and the loading docks are sunken. Perfect for lowered vehicles carrying heavy crates. Roman stood up straight. He looked at Russo. Verify it.

Russo didn’t argue. He pulled out his phone and walked to the corner of the room, speaking in rapid, hushed tones. Declan just stared at Sadie, a new, begrudging respect dawning in his battered eyes. Good catch, kid, the Irishman muttered. I’m not a kid, Sadie replied bluntly. Roman walked around the table. The lieutenants instinctively stepped back, giving him a wide berth. He stopped in front of Sadie. The proximity was deliberate. In front of his highest-ranking men, he was establishing a terrifyingly clear dynamic. You’re sure about the suspension? Roman asked. His voice low, meant only for her. I know cars, Gallagher, she said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. I know how they move, how they sound, and what they’re built for. They’re at the mill.

Roman nodded slowly. He reached out, and in a move that made both Declan and Russo freeze in their tracks, he gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from Sadie’s forehead. The gesture was shockingly intimate, entirely out of place in a war room, and undeniably possessive. Sadie’s breath hitched, but she held her ground, refusing to flush. Russo, Roman called out, his hand dropping back to his side, his eyes never leaving Sadie’s. Yeah, boss. Russo lowered his phone, his face pale. She’s right. We have a scout on the west side. Two black modified sedans just pulled into the textile mill. They’re unloading crates.

Roman smiled. It was a cold, ruinous expression. The king had found his target. Declan, gear up. Take ten men. We hit the mill in twenty minutes. Roman turned his back to the table, retrieving his shoulder holster from the back of his chair. He slid his arms into the leather straps, checking the magazine of his Glock before snapping it back into place. What about me? Sadie asked. She hated the fact that she sounded eager. She wanted to stay out of it. She wanted to go back to her garage and rebuild carburetors. But the blood was pounding in her ears, singing a violent, familiar tune.

Roman slipped his tailored wool jacket over the holster, smoothing the lapels. He looked at her. His slate-gray eyes raking over her broad shoulders, her powerful stance, and the stubborn fire burning in her expression. You’re driving, Roman said. And Sadie? Yeah. If anyone gets in our way, Roman said, his voice dropping into that lethal register that made her spine tingle. You run them over.

The drive to the textile mill was a master class in suffocating silence. Sadie gripped the steering wheel of the up-armored Chevy Suburban. Her knuckles were bone white. The engine growled a low, steady bass note beneath the floorboards. In the rearview mirror, she could see the headlights of three trailing SUVs carrying Declan, Russo, and a heavily armed strike team. Roman sat in the passenger seat. He had swapped his tailored suit jacket for a black tactical vest, the Kevlar pulling tight across his chest. He was calmly loading a high-capacity magazine into a sleek, matte black rifle. The metallic snick-clack of the round sliding into place was the only sound in the cab. He didn’t offer her words of encouragement. He didn’t ask if she was scared. He treated her the exact same way he treated the men in the cars behind them, with the absolute expectation that she would do her job. Sadie respected him for it. She also hated how much it made her blood race.

Take a left on Miller Street, Roman instructed, his voice flat. He racked the charging handle of the rifle. Kill the headlights, we hit the gravel access road. Sadie downshifted, the heavy transmission whining as she took the corner hard. The tires gripped the wet asphalt, propelling them into the decaying industrial district. The streetlights here were blown out or shattered. The old textile mill loomed ahead, a massive, sprawling skeleton of brick and broken glass against the night sky. She reached down and flicked the headlight dial to zero. The world plunged into absolute darkness, save for the faint, sickly yellow glow of a single security bulb over the mill’s sunken loading dock.

Two black modified sedans were parked exactly where she said they would be. Men in heavy jackets were hauling long wooden crates up the concrete ramp. Stop here, Sadie asked, her voice a low, tight rasp. No, Roman said. He didn’t even blink. He braced his boots against the floorboard. Hit the gas. Sadie didn’t hesitate. She slammed her heavy steel-toed boot down on the accelerator. The Suburban roared. Three tons of reinforced steel and sheer horsepower surged out of the darkness. The men on the loading dock barely had time to turn their heads before Sadie smashed the heavy brush guard of the SUV straight into the rear quarter panel of the closest sedan.

The impact was deafening. Metal shrieked and crumpled. The sedan was shoved violently sideways, pinning two of the Coretti gunmen against the brick wall. All hell broke loose. Muzzle flashes strobed wildly in the dark as the surviving Coretti men opened fire. Bullets hammered the windshield, spiderwebbing the bulletproof glass directly in front of Sadie’s face. She didn’t flinch. She kept her foot on the gas using the mangled sedan as a plow, grinding it up the loading dock ramp until it wedged perfectly in the open roll-up door, blocking their escape route.

Execute, Roman barked into his radio. He kicked his door open before the SUV had even fully settled. He moved with terrifying, predatory speed, his rifle coming up to his shoulder. He fired three controlled bursts. Three Coretti men dropped into the wet gravel. From behind them, Declan and Russo’s team swarmed the perimeter, laying down a suppressing field of heavy fire. Sadie stayed in the cab. She kept the engine revved, her hands locked on the wheel, scanning the chaos. She watched Roman move through the firefight. He wasn’t a man who directed traffic from the rear. He was a tactician of violence, stepping through the crossfire with a cold, calculated grace that made Sadie’s stomach tighten.

Then she saw the blind spot. A heavy-set man in a leather trench coat scrambled out from beneath the loading dock. He was bleeding from a head wound, but his hands were steady as he raised a sawed-off shotgun. He was aiming squarely at Roman’s back. Roman was engaged with two shooters on the catwalk above and didn’t see him. Sadie didn’t think. She didn’t shout a warning. There was no time. She shoved her door open and vaulted out of the cab. Her hand blindly grabbed the heaviest object in the driver’s side door pocket, a massive, solid steel lug wrench. She hit the gravel running. At six-foot-one, propelled by pure adrenaline-fueled momentum, she crossed the ten yards in a matter of seconds.

The gunman heard her boots crunching on the stone and began to pivot, his eyes widening as he registered the sheer size of the woman charging him. Sadie didn’t stop. She didn’t try to disarm him. She swung the heavy steel wrench like a baseball bat. The metal connected with the side of the gunman’s knee with a sickening, wet crunch. The man screamed, his leg folding backward at an unnatural angle. As he collapsed, the shotgun discharged into the dirt. Sadie followed through, grabbing the collar of his trench coat with her free hand. She hauled him upward using every ounce of her heavy, calloused strength and slammed him backward into the brick wall of the mill. His skull cracked against the masonry. He went limp, sliding down the wall to lay motionless in the mud.

Sadie stood over him, her chest heaving. The heavy wrench in her hand dripped with rainwater. The violent exertion had ripped the stitches in her arm and a fresh trail of blood was soaking through her black T-shirt. She was panting, her teeth bared in a feral snarl, completely consumed by the raw, brutal reality of survival. The gunfire around them abruptly died down. Clear, Declan bellowed from inside the warehouse. Perimeter clear, Russo echoed from the yard. Sadie slowly lowered the wrench. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a cold, biting shame. She stared down at the man she had just broken. She squeezed her eyes shut. This was what she was. A bruiser. A thug with grease under her fingernails.

She heard boots crunching slowly on the gravel behind her. She turned. Roman was standing ten feet away. His rifle was lowered, hanging by its tactical sling. His slate gray eyes were locked on her. He took in her heavy defensive stance, the bloody wrench in her massive hand, the savage, unapologetic violence she had just committed to save his life. Sadie braced herself. She waited for the look. The look of disgust. The look every man gave her when they realized she wasn’t a woman to be coddled, but a force to be feared.

Roman didn’t look disgusted. He dropped his rifle. It hit the dirt with a heavy thud. He started walking toward her. The rain began to fall harder, washing the cordite and blood into the gravel. Sadie backed up until her spine hit the wet brick wall of the mill. She dropped the lug wrench. It clanged loudly against the concrete footing. She crossed her arms defensively over her chest, trying to hide the fresh blood seeping through her shirt, trying to shrink a frame that fundamentally refused to be small.

Roman stopped inches from her. The heat rolling off his body cut through the freezing rain. He reached up, his long, elegant fingers wrapping around her thick wrists, gently but firmly pulling her arms uncrossed. You tore your stitches, he said. His voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the rain. I’m fine, Sadie gritted out. She tried to look away, staring hard at the idling Suburban. You should check your men. Russo took a graze to the shoulder. Russo can handle himself, Roman replied. He didn’t let go of her wrists. Instead, he stepped closer, forcing her to look down at him. You saved my life. He had a shotgun. He was in your blind spot. You didn’t hesitate.

I did what I had to do, Sadie snapped, her voice cracking slightly. The vulnerability was suffocating her. She yanked her hands free, pushing him back by the chest armor. Don’t look at me like that, Roman. Roman planted his boots, refusing to be moved. Like what? Like I’m a goddamn marvel, she shouted, the anger finally boiling over. I’m not. I’m a monster. Look at me. Look at what I just did to that man. I broke him in half. I didn’t even blink. I’m rough. I’m violent, and I don’t know how to be soft. She gestured wildly to herself, to her broad shoulders, her scarred hands, the blood soaking her shirt. I’ve spent my whole life being too big, too loud, too heavy. Men want women they can protect. They want women who look pretty holding a wine glass, not women who can rebuild a V8 engine and swing a tire iron. I am a thug in a mechanic suit. So, stop looking at me like you want me. It’s a sick joke, and I won’t be the punchline.

Roman let her finish. He stood perfectly still, letting her heavy, ragged breaths fill the silence between them. Then, he moved. He didn’t reach for her wrists this time. He stepped directly into her space, his hands coming up to grip her jaw. His thumbs pressed fiercely into her cheeks, forcing her to hold his gaze. His eyes were entirely black in the darkness, burning with a possessive, consuming fire that made her knees weak. You think I want soft? Roman whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intensity. You think a man in my position survives with a fragile woman on his arm? The women who look pretty holding wine glasses don’t last in my world, Sadie. They shatter.

His grip on her jaw tightened, anchoring her entirely to him. I am a monster, Roman said, his breath warm against her wet skin. I run a city built on extortion and blood. I order men to die before I finish my morning coffee. I don’t want a princess. I don’t want delicate. I want a queen who can look the devil in the eye and swing a tire iron at his kneecaps. Sadie’s breath hitched. A tremor ran through her massive frame, completely involuntary. You are a force of nature, Roman growled, stepping even closer, pinning her heavy body between his chest and the brick wall. You are exactly what you were meant to be. You fit in my world perfectly. And you fit with me.

Roman, she breathed, a desperate, confused sound. I told you, he murmured, his lips brushing against hers, the friction electric and heavy. Try me. He didn’t give her a chance to argue. Roman kissed her. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t romantic or sweet. It was a collision. He kissed her with the same ruthless, demanding control he used to run his empire. His mouth opened over hers, hard and uncompromising, tasting of rain, adrenaline, and mint. Sadie gasped against her lips, her hands instinctively coming up to grip his tactical vest. She tried to hold back, terrified of crushing him, terrified of breaking the one thing that finally felt right.

Roman sensed her hesitation. He slid his hands down from her jaw, wrapping his arms around her thick waist, hauling her heavy frame solidly against him. He growled against her mouth, a sharp, commanding sound. He was demanding her strength, demanding that she stop holding back. Sadie surrendered. She let out a low, guttural groan, her large hands sliding up from his vest to fist in the wet collar of his shirt. She kissed him back with all the aggressive, pent-up energy she had spent a lifetime suppressing. She didn’t worry about being too heavy or too rough. She met his ferocity match for match, her teeth clashing against his, her tongue tangling with his in a desperate, gritty claiming. The rain poured down on them, soaking them to the bone, but they were burning.

When Roman finally pulled back, they were both gasping for air. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his lips swollen. He looked up at her, an arrogant, profoundly satisfied smirk curving his mouth. Too big? Roman scoffed quietly, his hands still gripping her hips tightly. He leaned in, pressing a hard kiss to the corner of her jaw. You’re exactly my size.

The drive back to the safe house was devoid of the suffocating tension that had plagued the trip out. The silence now felt heavy, but it was a shared weight. Sadie kept one hand on the steering wheel of the battered Suburban, her other arm throbbing a dull, rhythmic ache. Roman sat in the passenger seat, his tablet illuminated in the dark cab as he coldly ordered the dismantling of what remained of the Coretti family’s operations. He didn’t look like a man who had just kissed her into oblivion against a wet brick wall. He looked exactly like the kingmaker she had first met in her garage, but every few minutes his eyes would flick to the rearview mirror, checking their six, and then his gaze would drag over to her. It wasn’t a glance. It was an anchor.

They reached the underground garage at four a.m. Sadie killed the engine. The silence was absolute. Before she could unbuckle, Roman reached across the center console. His hand covered hers on the gearshift. His skin was warm, his grip unapologetically firm. Russo has a private doctor en route to stitch that arm properly, Roman said quietly. And to give you a tetanus shot. That wrench was filthy. I told you I’m fine. And I told you I maintain my assets. A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He squeezed her hand once, hard, before letting go. Upstairs, now.

The doctor, a nervous, balding man with trembling hands, didn’t ask questions. He cleaned the wound, applied a local anesthetic, and re-stitched the gash with surgical precision. Sadie sat on the leather couch, staring straight ahead. Roman stood by the window, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, watching the doctor’s every move with the unblinking intensity of a hawk. When the doctor packed his bag and hurried out the door, the sun was just beginning to turn the sky a bruised purple. Roman walked over to the heavy oak table. He set his glass down and picked up a manila folder. He carried it over to the couch, stopping in front of Sadie. He didn’t hand it to her. He dropped it onto her lap.

What’s this? she asked, her voice raspy from exhaustion. Open it. Sadie flipped the heavy cardstock cover. Inside was a stack of legal documents. On top was the deed to her garage. Stamped across the front in heavy red ink was a single word, Satisfied. Her breath hitched. She looked up at him, her brows drawing together in deep, suspicious confusion. Jimmy’s debt was eighty grand, Roman. We agreed on two years of labor. It’s been three weeks. You saved my life tonight, Sadie. Roman took a sip of his whiskey, his slate gray eyes cool and steady. And you secured a tactical advantage that allowed my men to wipe out the Coretti supply line without a single casualty on our side. My life and my empire are worth more than eighty thousand dollars. The ledger is balanced.

Sadie stared at the paper. The deed. The only thing she had ever truly owned. The only thing her father had left her. She had been prepared to bleed for two years to keep it. I don’t need charity, she said. Her defensive instincts flaring. Her jaw tightened. The muscles ticking beneath her skin. It’s not charity. It’s compensation for services rendered. Roman stepped closer, crowding her space, forcing her to look up at him. You own the garage free and clear. You can lock the doors tomorrow, change your number, and never see me again. You have your freedom, Sadie. He paused. The silence stretching out between them, thick and fraught with the gravity of the choice.

Or? Sadie prompted, her heart hammering against her ribs. Or? Roman said softly, his voice dropping into that lethal, gravelly register that made her spine tingle. You acknowledge that you’re bored out of your mind fixing alternators for civilians. You acknowledge that you like the adrenaline. You keep the garage, but you upgrade it. You become the exclusive logistical head for my syndicate’s fleet. You run your own crew on my payroll.

Sadie looked at the deed and then back at the man standing over her. He wasn’t asking her to be his pet. He wasn’t asking her to hide her size or soften her edges or pretend to be something she wasn’t. He was handing her an empire of steel and oil and asking her to rule it. Before she could answer, the heavy steel door of the apartment opened. Russo walked in. His left arm was in a sling. His tailored suit jacket draped awkwardly over his shoulders. He looked exhausted, covered in drywall dust and soot. He stopped dead when he saw them.

The dynamic in the room was undeniable. Sadie was sitting on the couch, massive and bloodstained, holding a deed. Roman was standing over her, protective and commanding. Russo didn’t sneeze this time. He didn’t look at Sadie like she was a grease monkey who had wandered into the wrong room. He looked at the bloody wrench she had left on the floor, and he looked at the cold, unapologetic strength radiating from her broad shoulders. He offered a slow, respectful nod. Coretti is in custody, boss, Russo reported, keeping his eyes entirely devoid of disrespect. He shifted his gaze to Sadie. Good driving tonight, Miss Quinn. You saved my skin on the loading dock.

Sadie blinked. Miss Quinn? She looked at Roman. He wasn’t gloating. He was just watching her, waiting for her to realize what he had known since the moment she stood up to him in the rain three weeks ago. She didn’t need to shrink to fit into the world. She just needed a world big enough to hold her. Sadie carefully closed the manila folder. She set it on the coffee table. She stood up. Her six-foot-one frame rising to meet Roman eye to eye. I’m going to need a bigger budget for tools, she told him. Roman smiled. It was a terrifyingly beautiful thing. Whatever you need.

Six months later. The air inside the South End garage tasted of synthetic oil and fresh coffee. It was raining again. A heavy, relentless deluge drumming against the reinforced steel roof. The garage didn’t look like a failing business anymore. The corrugated tin had been replaced with heavy-duty cinder block. The peeling paint was gone, covered by sleek industrial gray epoxy. Four state-of-the-art hydraulic lifts occupied the main floor, each holding a heavily modified matte black SUV.

Sadie stood under a lifted chassis, a digital torque wrench in her hand. She wore her standard uniform, heavy canvas pants, steel-toed boots, and a black tank top that showcased the thick corded muscle of her arms. A jagged white scar peeked out from her shoulder, and a newer, thicker pink scar tracked across her bicep. She didn’t bother covering them anymore. She was exactly what she was. Torque the sway bar to ninety-five foot-pounds, Sadie barked, her raspy voice echoing off the concrete walls. If I find out you pencil-whipped the inspection, I’ll break your fingers.

A young, heavily tattooed mechanic scrambled out from under the neighboring vehicle, clutching a clipboard. Yes, boss. Ninety-five. Got it. Sadie wiped her hands on a rag, tossing it onto a pristine stainless steel workbench. She was running a crew of six now. They were rough men, ex-cons and brawlers who didn’t take orders easily. But they took them from her. They took them because she could outlift them, outwork them, and because they all knew what happened to the man at the textile mill.

The heavy bulletproof glass door of the front office swung open. Roman walked in. He was a contrast of elegance against the grit of the garage. He wore a navy bespoke suit today, the wool tailored perfectly to his lean, predatory frame. The men on the floor instantly dropped their gaze, focusing intensely on their work. Roman commanded respect simply by breathing. But his eyes bypassed the crew, locking immediately onto Sadie. He walked across the epoxy floor, sidestepping a puddle of water, holding two paper cups of black coffee. He handed one to her without a word.

They running smooth? Roman asked, nodding up at the fleet. Better than smooth, Sadie said, taking a sip of the scalding coffee. She didn’t flinch at the heat. I swapped the suspension on the lead car. The Coretti remnants have been using spike strips on the north side. The new tires are run-flats with reinforced sidewalls. They could drive over a bed of nails at eighty miles an hour and not lose traction. Good. Roman took a sip of his own coffee. He looked at her. His slate gray eyes tracing the smudge of grease across her cheekbone. He reached out, his bare thumb brushing against her skin, deliberately smearing the oil rather than wiping it away. It was a gesture of claiming. He didn’t want her clean. He wanted her exactly as she was.

Dinner with the mayor is at eight, Roman murmured, his voice low, strictly for her ears. He’s getting nervous about the union contracts. We need to remind him who keeps the peace in this city. Sadie groaned, leaning her massive frame against the workbench. Do I have to wear a dress? Because I’m not wearing a dress, Roman. I’ll look like a linebacker in a tutu. Roman’s eyes darkened. A flash of pure possessive heat igniting in the depths. He stepped closer, invading her space with the same relentless gravity he always used. He pressed his chest against hers, ignoring the fact that her grease-stained shirt was transferring grime to his thousand-dollar suit lapel.

You will wear one of the tailored suits we bought you, Roman instructed, his voice dropping into that lethal register. The charcoal one with the black shirt. You look terrifying in it. Terrifying is a compliment now? For a queen in my world, Roman’s hand slid to the back of her neck, his long fingers gripping the heavy muscles at the base of her skull. It is the highest compliment. He pulled her down slightly, meeting her halfway, and kissed her hard. It was a kiss that tasted of dark roast coffee and uncompromising power.

Sadie wrapped her thick, calloused hands in his lapels, kissing him back with all the aggressive, unapologetic force she possessed. When they finally broke apart, the mechanics on the floor were completely silent, desperately pretending they hadn’t seen a thing. Sadie looked at the man who had walked into her failing garage and demanded she pay a debt. He had taken her worst insecurities, her size, her roughness, her violence, and turned them into a crown. She was no longer a thug in a mechanic’s suit. She was Sadie Quinn. She was six feet of hard muscle, bad attitude, and steel. And the king of the underworld belonged to her.

Eight, Sadie said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. I’ll drive. Roman smirked, adjusting his cuffs. I wouldn’t have it any other way.