Snow swept sideways across Pittsburgh’s riverfront, burying the sidewalks beneath white drifts and turning the black water beyond the docks into a restless sheet of steel.

Dante turned smoothly toward the door, his demeanor instantly shifting back into battle readiness. “Did they cut the phone lines?”

“Yes,” Tomas confirmed. “Cellular signal is dropping fast due to the storm. We’re isolated.”

Dante nodded calmly, as if he had anticipated this exact scenario. “Gather the men in the central hall. Tell Marco to secure the lower windows with the steel shutters. Nobody fires unless they breach the inner gate.”

He turned back to Rosie, who was already pushing herself up off the bed, clutching her crutch tightly.

“You’re coming with me,” Dante said, offering her his hand for the very first time.

Rosie looked at his broad, calloused hand, then up at his face. Without hesitation, she reached out and placed her small, warm fingers in his grip. His hand closed around hers with firm, reassuring strength, pulling her steadily to her feet.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the upper study,” Dante replied as they moved into the hallway. “It has reinforced doors and a secondary line to the harbor police station. You’ll be safe there while we clear the driveway.”

They moved quickly through the darkened estate, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the emergency lamps. The house, which had seemed so grand and tranquil hours ago, now felt like a ancient fortress preparing for a siege. Iron shutters clanked shut over the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the drawing room, and armed men moved silently through the shadows, taking up positions near the doors.

When they reached the second-floor study—a large, wood-paneled room lined with ancient leather-bound books and heavy bronze statues—Dante led her to a comfortable sofa near a stone fireplace where a low fire crackled.

He pulled a small, silver key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in his heavy mahogany desk, pulling out a sleek, snub-nosed revolver. He checked the cylinder with a quick, practiced motion, then placed it gently on the small table beside her.

Rosie stared at the weapon, her eyes wide. “I don't know how to use that.”

“It’s simple,” Dante said, leaning down so his dark eyes were level with hers. “You point it at the door and pull the trigger. But you won't need to. No one gets past Tomas and me.”

He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of chestnut hair from her cheek. The gesture was so tender, so entirely unexpected from a man who had broken a rival’s nose minutes earlier, that Rosie’s breath hitched in her throat.

“Stay here, Rosalie,” he whispered softly. “I will be back for you.”

With that, he turned and stepped out of the study, locking the heavy oak door from the outside.

Left alone in the quiet room, Rosie listened to the storm raging against the heavy stone walls. Outside, the wind howled like a wounded beast, hurling sheets of ice against the glass.

Ten minutes passed in agonizing silence.

Then, the sound echoed through the house—a sharp, muffled explosion that shook the floorboards beneath her feet.

Rosie bolted upright, her hand flying to her mouth. Down below, the rapid, terrifying pop of small-arms fire cut through the roaring wind. Shouts and glass breaking echoed from the lower floor.

Moretti hadn't just blocked the road; he had attacked the house.

Panic surged through Rosie’s veins, hot and blinding. She reached for the revolver on the table, her fingers cold and clumsy against the cold steel. She pulled her crutch toward her, her mind racing. She couldn't just sit here like a helpless victim while men fought and died downstairs.

She moved to the heavy study door, placing her ear against the polished wood.

The sounds of gunfire were growing closer—ascending the grand staircase.

“Clear the West Wing!” Marco’s rough voice bellowed from the hallway outside. “They breached the terrace doors!”

A heavy thud sounded directly against the study door, followed by the sound of a body slamming against the wall.

Rosie backed away slowly, stepping toward the center of the room, raising the heavy silver revolver with both hands, her arms shaking violently.

The heavy oak door buckled under a sudden, powerful kick. The lock shattered with a loud crack, and the door burst open.

A broad, heavily bearded man wearing a snow-covered coat burst into the room, holding a bloody hunting knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and frantic as they locked onto Rosie standing alone in the center of the room.

“Well, well,” the man sneered, wiping blood from his cheek with his sleeve. “Look what Dante hid up here.”