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

The final battle of the Pacific Northwest syndicate war din't happen in the streets of Boise. It happened on a snowy night at a private airstrip twenty miles outside the city limits.

For three days, Carmine had executed a masterclass in criminal warfare. He had systematically frozen Moretti’s bank accounts through corrupt offshore contacts, exposed their drug routes to federal authorities, and turned two of Moretti’s senior capos against their boss.

Don Antonio Moretti—the ruthless patriarch of the Spokane syndicate—was forced to flee Idaho in a desperate bid to reach his private jet.

He didn't make it.

I stayed in the fourth-floor office, watching the live satellite feeds and security dispatch updates alongside Vane. My hands were clenched tightly in my lap, praying with every fiber of my being for Carmine’s safe return.

At 3:00 AM—the exact same time I had been scrubbing that copper skillet three months ago—the heavy oak doors of the office swung open.

Carmine walked in.

He was wearing his dark trench coat, covered in snow and fine red speckles. His face was pale, his eyes tired, but as soon as his gaze landed on me sitting by the fire, the tension melted from his broad shoulders.

He didn't say a word. He stripped off his leather gloves, unbuttoned his coat, and tossed it to the floor.

I scrambled up from my chair and ran across the room, throwing my arms around his neck. Carmine caught me effortlessly, lifting me off my feet and burying his face in my hair, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.

"It's over," Carmine whispered into my neck, his voice raspy and exhausted. "Moretti is gone. The syndicate has surrendered. Spokane belongs to DeLuca now."

I pulled back slightly, cupping his face in my hands, checking every inch of his handsome, scarred face. "Are you hurt? Did anyone hit you?"

"I'm fine," Carmine murmured, a rare, breathtakingly soft smile breaking across his lips. "I told you. Nobody touches what is mine. And nobody takes me away from you."

Vane quietly stepped into the office, carrying a silver tray with two glasses of vintage brandy and a fresh leather folder.

"The transition papers are prepared, Mr. DeLuca," Vane reported smoothly. "The federal authorities have accepted the tip-off regarding Moretti’s remaining assets. Your name remains completely unblemished in the public record."

"Good," Carmine said, setting me down gently on my feet, though his hand remained securely resting on the small of my back. "And the foundation?"

"The botanical research grant for Boise State has been finalized," Vane added with a subtle, rare smile toward me. "Five million dollars, established under the Ivy Marshall Endowment for Conservation."

I gasped, looking at Carmine in utter shock. "Five million dollars? Carmine!"

"I told you," Carmine said softly, taking one of the brandy glasses from Vane’s tray and handing it to me. "I don't do charity. I invest in what matters. And you, Ivy, are the best thing this city has ever produced."

Tears spilled over my lashes, glowing under the warm light of the office lamps. I looked at Vane, then back at Carmine—the terrifying mafia boss who had locked a kitchen door to save a bleeding maid, who had erased monsters from the earth to keep her safe, and who had built an empire just to give her a future.