The blue neon glow of the security monitors painted long, erratic shadows across the panic-room floor.

The wind howled five hundred feet above Michigan Avenue, pressing against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the private dining room at the top of the John Hancock Center. Below them, Chicago was a vast, glittering grid of amber and neon lights stretching out into the black expanse of Lake Michigan.

Federica wore a sleek, midnight-blue dress that contrasted sharply with the sensible tweed skirts she wore to the office. Her hair was swept back into an elegant knot, and the subtle silver pendant resting against her collarbone caught the ambient glow of the room.

Across the candlelit table, Gabriele watched her with quiet intensity. He wore a tailored charcoal tuxedo, his tie immaculate, his presence commanding the entire room even though they were entirely alone—the floor having been cleared by his security detail hours prior.

"You're staring," Federica said softly, swirling the red wine in her glass.

"I'm observing," Gabriele corrected, a faint smile touching his lips. "It's what I do best. Though in your case, every time I look closer, I find something entirely unexpected."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that you spent your first year at Romano Holdings eating peanut butter sandwiches at your desk because you were too proud to ask for a corporate meal card, yet you walked into a hail of gunfire to protect a baby you had never even met."

Federica looked down at her glass. "Survival isn't about pride, Gabriele. It's about choices. My father walked out when I was ten. My mother worked three cleaning jobs just to keep the lights on in our apartment on the South Side. You learn early on that when the world is breaking around you, you either pick up the pieces or you get crushed by them."

Gabriele stood up from his side of the table, walked around, and pulled out the chair beside her. Instead of returning to his seat, he sat down right next to her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his broad frame.

He took her hand, turning her palm upward to inspect the faint, silvery scars tracing across her knuckles where the skin had healed from the steam-tunnel fight.

"You don't have to carry anything alone anymore," he said, his voice deep, vibrating with a raw, unshakable honesty. "Not the debt, not the fear, not the weight of this city."

Federica turned her hand, her fingers interlacing with his. "And what about your world, Gabriele? It’s full of shadows. Bullets, blood, enemies waiting in the dark."