Nine years had passed since anyone heard Dante Marino laugh, and in his world, silence was more terrifying than gunfire.

For six hours, the seventy-second floor was quiet as a tomb.

I sat at my desk, monitoring news feeds, police scanner frequencies, and our internal encrypted message boards. The official news reported an "industrial accident" at the riverfront site, but the street networks were screaming: the long-standing peace treaty between the Marino Syndicate and the Moretti Family was officially dead.

At 4:00 PM, the private elevator chimed.

The doors slid open, and Dante stepped out, followed by Tommy and two senior captains. Dante’s coat was gone. His white dress shirt was stained with dark oil and spots of crimson blood across the cuffs. His knuckles were bruised, but his gait was steady, dangerous, and controlled.

"Tommy, double the guards at the shipping yards," Dante ordered as he walked down the hall. "Tell Frank if he loses a single container of cargo tonight, I'll dump him in the river myself."

"Understood, Boss," Tommy said, nodding quickly before taking the stairs down.

Dante walked straight into his office. I stood up immediately, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic, clean bandages, and a glass of water from the executive lounge, and followed him inside.

Dante was sitting in his chair, unbuttoning his blood-stained cuffs, his face tight with anger and pain. A sharp glass cut ran along his left cheekbone.

Without asking, I walked over, pulled a chair up next to his desk, and opened the antiseptic bottle.

"I told you to stay out of the way," Dante muttered, though he didn't pull away as I gently pressed a soaked cotton pad against the cut on his face.

"And I told you not to get bleeding on company time," I replied softly, cleaning the wound.

Dante hissed slightly as the alcohol stung the cut, his eyes locking onto mine. Up close, I could see the golden specks in his grey eyes, the deep lines of exhaustion carved around his mouth, and the sheer burden of authority he carried every second of his life.

"Marco will live," Dante said softly, his tone shifting. "Your warning about the alleyway saved two of my men. The sniper was waiting there. We caught him before he could fire."

I paused, the cotton pad hovering near his cheek. "I'm glad."

"Who taught you to look at blueprints like a military tactician, Emily?" Dante asked, his voice low and curious.

"My father was a civil engineer for the city," I said, putting the cotton pad down and unrolling a strip of white gauze. "Before he died, he used to take me to job sites. He taught me that every building has a structural flaw—and every person does, too."

Dante stared at me, leaning his head back slightly as I placed a neat bandage over his cheekbone. His breath was warm against my fingers.

"And what is my structural flaw?" Dante asked, his voice dropping into an intense whisper that sent a tremor through my chest.

"You think you have to carry the weight of everything alone," I answered honestly, meeting his gaze. "You think if you let anyone close, they'll die like your wife did."

The room went dead silent.

Mentioning Clara Marino was the ultimate taboo in the Chicago underworld. Men had been shot for casually bringing up her name in Dante's presence. I waited for his rage, for the cold fury that kept everyone in awe of him.

Instead, Dante slowly reached up, his large, warm hand covering mine where it rested on his desk. His fingers were rough, calloused, but his touch was unbelievably gentle.

"Clara was a sweet woman," Dante said, his voice raw with a grief that nine years had not managed to erase. "She loved flowers, soft music, and quiet mornings. She didn't belong in my world. When that bomb went off, I realized that my life is poison to anyone soft."

He looked at me, his eyes searching my face, taking in my plain suit, my tired eyes, and the calm composure that had never broken once.

"But you aren't soft, Emily," Dante whispered. "You stand in the middle of my storm and ask about the rug."

"I am practical, Mr. Marino," I murmured, my heart beating frantically against my ribs as his thumb gently stroked the back of my hand.

Before he could answer, his desktop computer chimed with a high-priority alert.

Dante pulled his hand back reluctantly, looking at the screen. A dark red file had appeared in his encrypted inbox—a file sent from an anonymous server in Switzerland.

He clicked it open. I leaned closer to look at the screen over his shoulder.

Inside was a single photograph. It was a high-resolution telephoto shot taken from outside a window. The photograph showed a young man in a wheelchair sitting in a bright, sunlit therapy room, smiling as a nurse helped him with his hand exercises.

It was my brother, Leo.