Here's something they don't teach you in med school: if you save a dying man in a freezing alley, make sure he's not a Bratva king first.

I'm a trauma surgeon. Steady hands. Cool head. Zero emotional attachment. That's my whole thing.

So when I end up in the wrong alley and find a stranger bleeding out, I don't hesitate. I kneel down, press my scarf into his wound, and tell him to breathe.

I try not to notice that even half-dead, this man is offensively, unreasonably hot.

When I walk away, I tell myself I'll never see him again. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Three weeks later, I'm giving a speech at a medical gala, and there he is. Tall. Dark suit.

Very much not dead.

Now he's not just the man whose blood is probably still on my favorite scarf. He's Kiren Sovarin, CEO of a biomedical empire.

He doesn't thank me. He crosses the ballroom and says three words:

"Dance with me."

My brain says no. My mouth says, "One song."

My pulse says you are in so much trouble.

Because the CEO title is just the surface. Kiren Sovarin runs one of the most powerful Bratva families in the city.

And I'm already in too deep to walk away.

I should run. It should scare me.

(It does something much, much worse.)

Especially when I see those two pink lines.

His To Claim is a full-length mafia romance with a cliffhanger ending and a guaranteed HEA at the end of book two. Perfect for those who love possessive Bratva heroes, fierce heroines, and the kind of tension that keeps you up way past your bedtime.