Luca Moretti knew something was wrong before he even opened the door.

The rain began to fall over the tarmac as the sun crested the Catskill mountains, painting the gray sky in streaks of pale gold and lavender.

Declan Vance’s body was covered in a black tarp and loaded into the back of an unmarked van by Alberto’s men.

Bianca Romano sat on the bottom step of the airplane stairs, completely shattered. Her designer dress was soaked with rain, her makeup ruined, her diamond bracelet lying forgotten on the wet tarmac. Two of her father’s guards stood over her like jailers.

Alberto walked slowly toward Luca, his shoulders hunched under the weight of his family’s total ruin.

“The council will hear that Vance died in a dispute over territory,” Alberto said raspy, avoiding Luca’s eyes. “Bianca will be placed in a convent in southern Italy under permanent guard. She will never return to the United States. She will never touch a cent of family money.”

Luca looked at the broken old man without pity. “That saves her life, Alberto. Nothing more. The Romano docks in Bayonne belong to Moretti Holdings as of eight o'clock this morning. If I see your face in Manhattan again, this arrangement is void.”

Alberto nodded once, a defeated, broken gesture, and turned back toward his car.

Luca turned to Emma.

She stood near the helicopter, the mountain wind whipping her dark hair across her face. She looked exhausted, bruised, her uniform jacket covered in soot and blood, but her eyes were clear. The heavy shadow of her brother’s unsolved murder had finally lifted from her shoulders.

Luca walked up to her, took off his coat, and draped it around her trembling shoulders.

“It’s over, Emma,” he said softly.

Emma looked up at the private jet, then down at the wet tarmac. “Ten years. I spent ten years wondering if anyone would ever pay for what they did to Thomas. I thought men like Vance were untouchable.”

“Nobody is untouchable,” Luca said. He reached out and gently tucked a damp lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers warm against her cold skin. “Not Vance. Not Alberto. Not me.”

Emma met his gaze. “You told him you loved me.”

Luca didn't flinch. He didn't look away. “I don't say things I don't mean, Emma. You know that by now.”

“Luca, you are a mob boss,” she said, her voice shaking slightly with the sheer impossibility of it all. “You run half of New York. I’m a woman who cleans houses to pay off old medical debts.”

“You *were* a woman who cleaned houses,” Luca corrected her gently, stepping closer until his chest touched hers. “Today, you brought down the largest illegal arms cartel on the Eastern Seaboard with a laptop and six spreadsheets. You stood behind me during a firefight. You have more courage, more intellect, and more beauty than any woman who has ever walked into my life.”

He took both of her hands in his, bringing them to his lips and kissing her bruised knuckles.

“I am done with political marriages,” Luca said, his dark eyes fierce with devotion. “I am done with fake alliances built on lies and greed. If I have to spend the rest of my life fighting this city, I want you beside me. Not as an employee. Not as a secret. As my partner. In everything.”

Emma felt tears prick the corners of her eyes—not tears of pain or terror, but the overwhelming release of a woman who had fought alone for a decade and had finally found someone who would move heaven and earth to stand beside her.

“The Greenwich estate is half-burned,” she murmured, a faint, tearful smile touching her lips.