Roman Duca stopped five feet from the three children standing in the cold Chicago rain.

The silence inside the diner was terrifying.

Roman sat motionlessly, staring at the line of text on the paper. The reading glasses hung from his hand. The color had drained from his face, leaving him looking like a pale, terrifying statue carved out of marble.

"Vincent," Roman repeated, the name tasting like ash on his tongue.

"Vincent and Mateo," I corrected, leaning back into my seat and crossing my arms. "They played you, Roman. They knew that as long as I was by your side, I audited every single contract, every shipping ledger, every land acquisition. I was catching onto the thirty million dollars they were siphoning from the construction union accounts."

I took a deep, shaky breath, feeling six years of built-up rage finally spilling over.

"They couldn't kill me because my father’s family would have started a war with your board," I continued, watching his eyes closely. "So they crafted the perfect betrayal. They knew your fatal flaw, Roman. They knew that your pride and your paranoia would never allow you to forgive a cheating, treacherous wife. They handed you the file, knowing you would drive me out without asking deep questions."

Roman slowly lifted his head. The look in his dark eyes was no longer just anger. It was a terrifying, abyssal rage—the kind of rage that had made the Duca family the undisputed lords of Chicago’s underworld for half a century.

"Vincent has been at my side for fifteen years," Roman said quietly, though his knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. "He stood beside me at my father's funeral. He stood beside me the night I thought you betrayed me."

"He stood beside you because he was the one holding the leash," I snapped. "Who do you think authorized the hit on Luca three weeks ago? Mateo realized I was asking questions in South Bend. They realized that if I came back, the whole castle of cards would collapse."

Roman stood up abruptly. The table shook, spilling cold coffee across the Formica surface.

He didn't care. He reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out of the booth. His grip was firm, hot, and unyielding, but there was no cruelty in it. Only an urgent, terrifying necessity.

"Where are we going?" I demanded, trying to pull back, though my body betrayed me by leaning into his strength.

"To the penthouse," Roman said, pulling me down the aisle toward the door. "My children are there. And Vincent is there."

"Roman, wait!" I pulled against his grip as we stepped out into the pouring rain. "You can't just walk in there and shoot him! He has half the security detail on his payroll! If you confront him without proof, Mateo will lock down the accounts and initiate a internal coup!"

Roman stopped beside his heavy, black armored sedan. He turned to face me, rain streaming down his face, soaking into his hair and clothes. He grabbed my waist with his free hand, pulling me flush against his hard body.

The proximity was overwhelming. For six years, I had starved for his touch, hated him for his touch, dreamed of his touch. The heat of his body burned through my coat, destroying six years of carefully built emotional walls in a single second.

"Listen to me, Elena," Roman growled, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. "Six years ago, I failed you. I listened to paper instead of listening to my heart. I let snakes poison my mind, and I let my wife walk out into the cold with my children."

He reached up, his large, calloused hand gently cupping my wet cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip.

"I am not that blind man anymore," Roman whispered, his voice thick with raw emotion. "I will tear this city apart block by block until every man who touched that lie is buried six feet beneath the earth. But first, I am taking my wife and my children home."

Before I could answer, his mouth came down on mine.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a brutal, desperate, possessive collision of six years of pain, longing, rage, and undeniable love. I gasped against his lips, my hands acting on instinct, wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer as the rain poured around us. He tasted of bitter coffee, rain, and the dark, dangerous power that had always bound me to him.