The deadbolt clicked behind the most feared mafia boss in Boise while I stood bleeding in his kitchen

The aftermath of the gala shattered whatever illusion of peace remained in Boise.

Dominic Rossi’s confession in the Nampa basement revealed everything: the Moretti family in Spokane was mounting a full-scale assault on the DeLuca territory, using Rocco’s death as an excuse to rally rival syndicates across the Pacific Northwest.

The compound on the hill transformed overnight into a wartime command center.

Armored SUVs lined the driveway twenty-four hours a day. Dozens of heavily armed men in dark tactical gear patrolled the perimeter. The fourth floor was placed under absolute lockdown, but this time, I wasn't trapped in my room.

I was in Carmine’s office.

While Carmine sat at his mahogany desk issuing orders to his capos, receiving reports from Seattle, and coordinating financial strikes against Moretti’s shell companies, I sat at the small table near the window, studying my botany textbooks.

The contrast was surreal. Carmine would be whispering cold, lethal instructions into an encrypted phone about shipping docks and weapons caches, and two minutes later, he would walk over to my table, lean down, and kiss the top of my head, asking if I needed more tea or another highlighter.

"You should go to San Francisco," Carmine said one evening in late January.

It was snowing heavily outside. Carmine stood by the fireplace, swirling a glass of scotch, his suit jacket discarded, his dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

I looked up from my laptop. "What?"

"I have a estate in Pacific Heights," Carmine said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "It’s completely secure. Vane can take you there tomorrow morning on the private jet. You’ll be safe until this war with Moretti is finished."

I closed my laptop with a sharp click. I stood up and walked over to him, stopping just inches from his chest.

"Are you sending me away?" I asked, my voice rising slightly.

"I am keeping you alive," Carmine corrected, his jaw tightening. "Moretti sent three hit squads into Idaho this week. Two of my safehouses were bombed in Coeur d'Alene. This is getting ugly, Ivy. If they figure out how much you mean to me—"

"No," I cut in firmly.

Carmine blinked, surprised by the absolute defiance in my tone. "Ivy—"

"I am not going to San Francisco," I declared, reaching up to grab the lapels of his open vest. "I spent my whole life running from bills, running from fear, running from people who wanted to hurt me. I finally found a home here. With you. I am not leaving."

"It’s dangerous!" Carmine growled, his hands coming up to grip my waist, his dark eyes flashing with anger and frustration. "You don't understand what these men do to women when they take them!"

"I know exactly what men like that do!" I shouted back, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. "Rocco showed me! But I also know that as long as I am under your roof, as long as I am beside you, nobody touches me! Don't push me away, Carmine. Don't do it."

Carmine stared down at me, his chest heaving. The fierce, stubborn light in my eyes reflected his own. He realized in that moment that I wasn't just a fragile flower he had plucked from a storm; I was his anchor.

With a low, gut-wrenching groan, Carmine pulled me into his arms, his mouth capturing mine in a fierce, desperate, possessive kiss.

It was our first real kiss—hot, intense, and tasting of scotch and raw devotion. My arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down to me, surrendering completely to the fire that had been building between us for months.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, his breath was coming in ragged gasps.

"You are the most infuriating, stubborn woman in this entire city," Carmine growled affectionately, his thumb tracing the line of my jawline.

"And you're stuck with me," I whispered, smiling through my tears.