The Crime Boss's Fiancée Kicked a Server for Saving a Bleeding Hound — She Had No Idea Who Was About to Walk Through the Door.

Clara woke the next morning at ten o'clock to the sound of someone pounding aggressively on the thin wooden door of her apartment.

She groaned, sitting up on her second-hand mattress. Her entire body ached; her left knee was swollen and purple from the fall on the marble floor, and her lower back screamed from the strain of carrying Titan. The memory of the previous night felt like a fever dream—the blood, the stiletto, the terrifying mafia boss who had looked at her with such profound gentleness.

The pounding came again, louder this time, rattling the frame in the drywall.

"Hayes! Open the damn door!" a gruff voice shouted from the hallway. "I know you're in there! Your car is in the lot!"

It was Gary, her landlord—a heavy-set, aggressive man who owned three run-down tenement buildings on the east side of the valley and treated his tenants like cattle. Clara pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a heavy sweater, limping toward the door. She unlocked the deadbolt and opened it two inches, keeping the security chain engaged.

Gary stood in the dim hallway, smelling of stale cigar smoke and cheap coffee, a clipboard tucked under his arm. "Your rent is five days away from due, Hayes. And I got a call from the city housing inspector this morning saying someone reported the boiler in the basement for code violations. Was that you?"

"The heat has been out for three days, Gary," Clara said, keeping her voice even despite the thumping in her chest. "It was forty degrees in my bedroom last night. I told you on Tuesday that if you didn't send a technician, I’d have to call the city."

Gary’s face flushed red, his thick jaw jutting out as he slammed the palm of his hand against the door, straining the security chain. "You little brat! You don't call the city on my property! I’m terminating your month-to-month lease right now! You have forty-eight hours to pack your junk and get out of my building, or I’m putting your mattress on the curb and keeping your security deposit for cleaning fees!"

"You can't do that!" Clara gasped, trying to push the door shut against his weight. "The law says you have to give thirty days' notice!"

"Try taking me to housing court with what you make scrubbing dishes!" Gary sneered, shoving his heavy boot into the door gap so she couldn't close it. "You think because you work at some fancy manor you have rights? You're garbage, Hayes. Get out by Monday, or I’ll have my boys come clear the room for you."

Before Clara could scream or reach for her phone, a heavy, black-gloved hand appeared from the hallway shadows, clamping down onto Gary’s shoulder with a vise-like grip that made the large landlord freeze instantly.

"He said thirty days is the law, Gary," a calm, deep voice resonated in the narrow corridor.

Gary spun around, his angry retort dying instantly on his tongue.

Standing behind him in the hallway were two men in dark suits. The one holding Gary’s shoulder was Marcus. Standing a step behind him, wearing a tailored navy overcoat and looking immaculate despite the early hour, was Julian Rostova.

Gary’s eyes bulged. Even a slumlord on the east side knew the face of the man who ran the valley's shadow economy. "Mr... Mr. Rostova? What... what are you doing here?"

Julian didn't look at Gary. His ice-blue eyes bypassed the sweating landlord entirely, peering through the two-inch gap of the doorway to check on Clara. Seeing her swollen knee and pale face, his expression hardened into cold granite.

"Remove your boot from her door," Julian ordered softly.

Gary scrambled backward so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, pulling his boot out of the threshold and pressing his back against the peeling wallpaper of the corridor. "I was just... we were just having a standard tenant discussion, sir. A misunderstanding."

"You were threatening to illegally evict a woman in the middle of autumn after failing to provide basic heating infrastructure," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register that made the ambient air feel freezing. He reached out, took the clipboard from under Gary’s numb arm, and flipped through the lease papers. "How much is the mortgage on this building, Gary?"

"I... I don't... what?"

"The mortgage," Julian repeated patiently, tossing the clipboard onto the floor. "I know for a fact you leveraged this building three years ago with Harbor Federal to buy a lake house in Tahoe. You owe four hundred thousand on the principal, and your payments are sixty days in arrears."

Gary’s jaw dropped. "How do you know that?"

"Because Harbor Federal is a subsidiary of Rostova Capital," Julian said smoothly, stepping into Gary’s personal space until the larger man shrank against the wall. "As of nine o'clock this morning, I bought your distressed debt. I am your bank, Gary. Which means if you ever raise your voice to this woman again, if you ever step foot on this floor without her express written invitation, I will foreclose on this building, seize your lake house, and freeze every bank account attached to your name by lunchtime. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Mr. Rostova! Yes, sir, absolutely!" Gary stammered, sweat pouring down his forehead. "She can stay as long as she wants! No rent! Free rent!"

"She won't be staying here," Julian said coldly. "Now get out of my sight before I change my mind about your lake house."