I’m the Blackthorn family’s top surgeon and their “cleaner.” I’ve handled countless messes for Evan Blackthorn.

I was also his secret lover for five years.

He was inside me more times than I can count, holding me tight as I came apart, kissing me with an obsession for my body he never bothered to hide.

It all ended after sex one night, when he said with a casual laugh, “I should get a wife, Rachel.”

“And maybe you should find a good man and get married, too.”

I wasn’t angry. I just quietly said, “Okay.”

In my last life, I insisted on staying by his side. It got me both my hands broken, my career as a surgeon shattered. In the end, during a raid by a rival family, he left me behind as bait, holding his brother’s widow, Sofia, tenderly in his arms.

So this time, I learned my lesson.

I stayed away from him. Found a new man, just like he wanted.

But this time, the always cool and calculated Mafia Don lost his mind.

On the surface, I'm the Blackthorn family's private doctor. But I was also Don Blackthorn's secret for five years. I thought I could win him over, but then, after sex one night, he told me, “Maybe you should find a good man and get married, too.” That’s when I knew. The one he really loved was his brother's widow.

The air was thick with sweat and expensive cologne.

Evan Blackthorn finished with a final, hard thrust, lingering to kiss my neck.

I was still catching my breath, watching in a daze as he rolled off me. The muscles of his back gleamed in the dim light.

He walked naked to the floor-to-ceiling window and lit a cigarette.

“I need a wife, Rachel.”

I didn’t say anything. I just sat up and reached for the black dress pooled on the floor.

It was the same routine for five years. After the pleasure, I was on my own. Get dressed, pretend we just finished talking business.

“A real Blackthorn wife,” he continued, not looking at me. “Someone who can stand by my side, host family dinners, give me an heir.”

Silence filled the room.

In my last life, those words would’ve sent a thrill through me. I would’ve wrapped my arms around him from behind and asked, full of hope, “Are you asking me to marry you?”

But now, I just calmly zipped up my dress.

I knew what was coming next.

“Maybe you should find a good man and get married, too.”

He smiled at me, and you couldn’t tell if he was joking or dead serious.

I nodded. Then I took the black key card from my purse and placed it gently on the table.

“I don’t think I’ll be needing this anymore,” I said, my voice even.

It was the key card to his private residence. A privilege I used to be proud of.

Evan’s brow furrowed instantly. For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed those cool, grey eyes.

He stubbed out his cigarette. “What the hell is this?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” I replied. “Your future wife won’t want another woman having free access to your bedroom.”

He let out a cold laugh, like I’d just told the world’s stupidest joke. “Are you throwing a tantrum? Knock it off, Rachel. You don’t get to be the one who ends this.”

I didn’t argue.

“Okay.” I turned and walked toward the door.

My compliance seemed to confuse him, turning his irritation into real anger and a hint of offense. He took a step forward, as if to grab me.

Just then, a sharp knock echoed on the heavy door.

“Boss!” It was Marco, his right-hand man, his voice urgent.

Evan froze, the cold mask of the Blackthorn Don snapping back into place. “What is it?”

“It’s Sofia. She says her safe house was breached. She’s terrified.”

Sofia.

That name was like a poisoned dagger, stabbing right into the memories of my past life.

I watched Evan’s expression change in a heartbeat.

The cold, calculating look vanished, replaced by raw urgency and worry.

He seemed to forget I was even there, striding to the walk-in closet and grabbing a shirt and slacks.

“Get the men ready. We’re out in five. Tell the guards at the perimeter to lock everything down!” His orders were sharp and quick.

He was buttoning his shirt with one hand and dialing his phone with the other, brushing past me like a gust of wind without a single glance.

It wasn't the first time. He'd drop everything for Sofia if she so much as whispered she was "scared."

And me? I'd taken a bullet for him, stitched up wounds that should have killed him, cleaned up more bloody messes than I could count. I never once got that look of concern from him.

I watched him disappear, listening to the fading sound of his and his men's footsteps down the hall.

I thought I was numb to it.

But being reborn, seeing it happen all over again, I realized it wasn't numbness. My heart was just dead.

I picked up my coat, ready to leave, but the door swung open again.

My brother, Luca Vitti, walked in.

He’s a high-ranking enforcer for the family, one of Evan’s most trusted men.

He saw me and paused. “Rachel? You’re still here?”

Luca always thought my access to Evan’s private rooms was because the Don valued my medical skills and trusted me as an advisor. He never knew about the dirty, hidden thing between us.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Just finished up.”

“How come you’re not with the Boss?” he asked, confused. “You usually stick to him like glue, in case something happens…”

“Not anymore,” I cut him off. “The Boss doesn’t need me right now.”

Boss. Not Evan. The title was like an invisible wall, instantly creating a chasm between us.

Luca was about to say something else, but his phone rang.

He glanced at it, then looked at me with a sigh. “It’s the Boss. He wants me to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t wander off.”

He muttered under his breath, “He always keeps you close…”

I heard him, but I said nothing.

I was the only one who knew. It wasn’t about trust. It was just the possessiveness he felt for his property.

In my last life, I was naive enough to think I belonged here. Belonged to him.

That fantasy died in a firefight with a rival family, when I shoved him out of the way of a collapsing steel beam and it crushed both my hands.

Those hands had been my life.

They could pluck a bullet from beside a beating heart, perfectly suture a torn artery.

They were my pride as a surgeon.

And for Evan, they were ruined.

I lay in a hospital bed, staring at my plastered hands. Evan held my wrist, a rare flicker of guilt in his eyes.

“I’ll take care of you, Rachel,” he promised.

I believed him.

I thought it was the recognition I’d earned, paid for with a pair of useless hands.

But in the end, on the night our family was cornered and had to evacuate, I became the bait left behind.

I’ll never forget it.

In the chaos, he never looked back at me. He just held a trembling Sofia close, shielding her as they boarded the last helicopter.

Over the roar of the rotors, I heard him murmur to her, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

Then the bullets tore me to pieces.

Ping.

A text alert pulled me from the bloody memory.

It was a picture message from an unknown number.

I opened it. In the photo, a hand wearing Evan’s family signet ring was holding a cup of coffee.

And in the background, a woman in an oversized white men’s dress shirt was smiling in the morning light of a kitchen.

It was Sofia.

A second message followed.

Evan says I’m the only one who can touch his things. His ring, his shirt, his everything.

I laughed.

Laughed at how pathetic, how utterly ridiculous I’d been.

Once, after an emergency surgery, my clothes were soaked in blood. I had no choice but to borrow one of his shirts.

The next morning, the look of undisguised disgust on his face was burned into my memory.

He threw the expensive, custom-made shirt into the trash right in front of me.

“Don’t touch my things, Rachel,” he’d said, his voice ice. “Remember your place.”

My place. The dirty little secret, the on-call cleaner. How could I ever be worthy of touching anything that belonged to the great Blackthorn family?

I deleted the photo and the message, then blocked the number.

The second I put my phone down, it buzzed violently.

The name flashing on the screen was one I knew by heart—Evan Blackthorn.

I ignored it.

He called again. And a third time. I finally answered.

“Get your medical kit to Sofia’s place. Now.” Evan’s voice was cold, a command that left no room for argument.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone.

“Why?”

“She cut her finger slicing fruit.” He said it like it was the most important event in the world. “It’s bleeding a lot.”

She nicked her finger?

I almost laughed out loud.

The Don of a major crime family was ordering his chief surgeon to make a house call because his brother’s widow nicked her finger?

“Evan, I’m a trauma surgeon, not a nanny for every minor scrape.”

“This isn’t a request, Rachel,” his voice dropped, laced with warning. “It’s an order from your Don. Sofia is an asset to be protected.”

Always the family, always the Don. He always had the perfect excuse.

“I understand,” I said.

“Be there in thirty minutes.” He hung up.

I listened to the dial tone, taking a deep breath.

Then, I scrolled through my contacts, found a number, and dialed.

“Dr. Vitti?” The man on the other end was Evan’s personal family physician, an old man named Peterson.

“Dr. Peterson, Mr. Blackthorn has ordered me to tend to Mrs. Rossi’s wound, but I have a more urgent patient. Could you please cover for me? The address is…”

I hung up, feeling a wave of relief I hadn’t felt in years.

An hour later, a text came through from Evan.

It was seething with rage.

Why is Peterson here? Rachel, are you defying my order?

A few seconds later, a second message.

You’re jealous, aren’t you? Because I went to Sofia last night?

His tone was smug, mocking, as if he’d figured out my “little game.”

I slowly typed out a reply and hit send.

As you said, Mr. Blackthorn. I am your subordinate, nothing more.

The Blackthorn family dinner was, as always, both lavish and suffocating.

I wore a conservative black gown, my arm linked with my brother Luca’s, staying quietly by his side.

“You seem different tonight, Rachel,” Luca murmured. “You’re usually… on edge.”

He was right. On edge.

Because my eyes were always chasing one person across the room.

Tonight, I hadn’t even glanced toward the head table.

Evan Blackthorn was holding court, and beside him, in a pristine white evening gown, was Sofia Rossi.

They looked like a perfect couple.

Never mind that she was his brother’s widow. In our world, power is everything. Nobody cared about the details.

I could hear the low hum of approval around them.

“Evan, this must be your brother’s widow? A true beauty,” said the head of an allied family, raising his glass.

A faint smile touched Evan’s lips.

“Yes, this is Sofia.”

The portly man turned to her. “Mrs. Rossi, an honor. A toast to you.”

Sofia looked flustered, shrinking back behind Evan almost instinctively.

Evan immediately shielded her, taking her uninjured hand. His voice held a tone that could almost be described as doting.

“Sorry, Antonio. Sofia can’t drink today.” He held up her index finger, which had a small bandage on it, for everyone to see. “She cut it making breakfast for me this morning.”

A round of good-natured chuckles and suggestive whistles went through the crowd.

“Ooh, so that’s how it is!”

“Some guys have all the luck.”

Evan soaked it in, the smile on his face deepening.

Then, his eyes cut across the room and landed squarely on me.

The warm facade vanished, replaced by the cold, possessive command of Evan Blackthorn.

“Rachel,” he called my name. His voice wasn’t loud, but it silenced our entire corner of the room. “Come here. You’ll drink this for Sofia.”

Every eye was on me.

Curiosity. Scrutiny. Contempt.

I was the subordinate, trotted out to take a drink for the future lady of the house.

Luca’s face hardened. He took a step forward, shielding me.

“Boss, Rachel can’t—”

“Luca,” Evan’s voice went cold as steel. “That was an order.”

I couldn’t let Luca get in trouble for my sake. He was my brother, and I wouldn’t let him clash with the Don over me.

I gave Luca’s sleeve a gentle tug and shook my head.

Then I stepped out from behind him, walked to the portly man, and took the glass of whiskey from his hand.

“It is my honor to drink for Mrs. Rossi.”

I tilted my head back and downed the burning liquid in one go.

The liquor seared a path down my throat and into my stomach.

I set the glass down, my expression unchanged.

Sofia looked at me, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. "I'm so envious of Rachel. So capable, and so valued by Evan... I wonder, does Rachel have a man in her life? Any man would be lucky to have her."

Evan’s brow furrowed, clearly disliking the topic.

But I didn't flinch. I smiled and played along. "I don't have anyone, but Miss Rossi is right. It's probably time I start thinking about that."

Evan's face darkened the moment I said "I don't have anyone."

Sofia, pretending not to notice, tugged on his arm. "Evan, why don't you introduce her to someone? She's your loyal subordinate, after all."

I knew what she was doing. Testing his feelings for me.

Evan's fingers tightened around his glass, his knuckles turning white.

I sealed the deal, raising my empty glass. "That would be wonderful. I like gentle men."

His gaze was a knife, trying to skin me alive. I could feel the rage rolling off him. A tool that "belonged" to him was daring to have a life of its own.

But he couldn't lose it in front of everyone.

He forced the anger down, squeezing out a cold smile through gritted teeth. "Of course," he said, his eyes never leaving mine, but the words were for Sofia. "I'll personally find a suitable match for her. No one from the Blackthorn family can be allowed to marry down."

The dinner continued in that strange, tense atmosphere. Evan kept schmoozing with Sofia, but his mood was a thundercloud. I felt his eyes on me from time to time, but I ignored every single glance.

Later, I was in the restroom, fixing my makeup.

The door opened and Sofia walked in.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the helpless, innocent look gone from her face.

“You’re a smart one, Rachel,” she said.

I ignored her and continued applying my lipstick.

She sauntered over, standing beside me. She looked at my reflection in the mirror, then her cheeks flushed slightly, and she adopted the tone of a girl sharing a secret.

“Evan… what does he like in bed? Since I’ll be… taking care of him from now on, I’d hate to not know his preferences.”

She paused, then added with pure venom, “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

I clicked the lipstick shut, turned, and smiled at her.

The smile must have surprised her.

There was no anger, no jealousy. Only a calm that felt almost like pity.

I leaned in close to her ear and whispered, so only she could hear:

“Evan likes black lace.”