A damp rag dragged across the laminate counter, carrying the smell of stale coffee and exhausted dreams.

The kiss was wild, messy, and filled with all the fear, adrenaline, and unspoken desire that had been building between them for weeks.

Roman let out a low, gut-wrenching growl, his arms wrapping around her waist like iron bands, lifting her slightly off the floor as he pulled her flush against his chest. He kissed her back with a ferocious intensity, his tongue claiming her mouth, tasting the red lipstick, the salt of her tears, and the sweet, addictive heat of her passion.

Mave tangled her fingers in his thick dark hair, pressing her full body against his, giving him everything she had been holding back. She felt his hands move down her back, tracing the deep curve of her spine, gripping her heavy hips with a possessive strength that sent shockwaves of pure pleasure straight to her core.

When they finally broke apart for air, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together in the quiet room.

"You're staying?" Roman asked, his voice rough and breathless.

"I'm staying," Mave said, her voice steady now, filled with a newfound iron resolve. "But Julian Vane has to pay for this. He ruined my dress."

Roman let out a dark, rich laugh that echoed through the steel room. "Consider him dealt with."

Twenty minutes later, Marco unlocked the panic room door from the outside. The courtyard was secure. Eleven of Vane's hitmen had been captured or killed; the rest had fled back to the South Side.

Roman didn't wait for the police—the police in this district didn't enter the Costa estate unless summoned.

He spent the next three days executing a cold, surgical destruction of the Vane family enterprise.

While Roman handled the street war, Mave returned to Fourth Street. She refused to sit in a safe house and hide. She oversaw the final touches of the bistro, which was officially named Mave's.

On the night before the grand opening, Mave sat at the polished black marble bar, checking the final wine inventory list on a tablet.

The diner was transformed into a paradise of understated luxury. The warm golden lights reflected off polished glass, the kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and truffles, and her newly hired staff were proudly wearing tailored black aprons.

The front door opened, setting off a soft, elegant brass chime.

Roman stepped inside. He wore a fresh charcoal suit, looking completely untouched by the bloody street war he had spent seventy-two hours winning. Julian Vane had been driven out of the city entirely, his territory absorbed into the Costa network.

Roman walked over to the bar, pulling up a stool beside Mave.

"The place looks incredible, Manager," Roman said, a rare, soft smile playing on his lips.

"It looks like eighty-five thousand dollars a year," Mave joked, setting her tablet down. She poured two glasses of a rich Tuscan red wine and handed one to him. "To new beginnings?"

Roman took the glass, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers. "To the only woman who ever conquered Fourth Street."

They clinked their glasses and drank.

"There's one more thing," Roman said, pulling a small silver key from his pocket and placing it on the bar counter between them.

Mave looked at the key. "What's this?"

"The deed to the top-floor penthouse apartment above this building," Roman said. "I bought the entire structure. The penthouse has been fully renovated—private elevator, chef's kitchen, balcony overlooking the harbor."

Mave stared at the key, then looked up at him. "Roman... I can't accept a penthouse."

"It's not a gift, Mave," Roman said softly, reaching out to cover her hand with his. "It's an invitation. I sold my estate outside the city. It had too many memories of a life I no longer want to live."

He looked around the warm, golden dining room, then back into her eyes.

"I want to live here," Roman murmured. "Above the bistro. With you. If you'll have me."

Mave looked at the silver key, feeling a wave of deep, overwhelming happiness wash over her chest. The girl who used to drag a damp rag across cracked Formica, praying she could pay her electric bill, was now standing in her own luxury bistro, looking at a man who owned the city, yet wanted nothing more than to build a life in her world.

She picked up the key, closed her hand around it, and smiled.