The heavy click of Vincent Moretti’s leather shoes against the imported mahogany flooring sounded like a firing squad loading their chambers one by one.

The sun set over Lake Michigan, painting the Chicago skyline in brilliant shades of amber, violet, and deep crimson.

Downstairs, the mansion was alive with the sound of quiet jazz music drifting from the solarium and the distant, cheerful laughter of staff members preparing for an evening dinner.

I stood on the private balcony of the master suite—no longer the east wing guest room, but Vincent’s own quarters—wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket, watching the city lights flicker to life across the dark water.

A pair of strong, familiar arms slid around my waist from behind, pulling me back against Vincent’s solid chest. He rested his chin on my shoulder, breathing in the scent of my hair.

“Cold?” he asked quietly.

“Never,” I replied, covering his hands with mine.

It was hard to believe that just a month ago, I had been an ordinary girl desperately trying to save her brother, stumbling through a flooded hallway with a blue plastic bucket and a mop that had chosen the enemy's side. Life in the Chicago underworld was dangerous, unpredictable, and filled with shadows. But standing here, held by the man who commanded those shadows, I knew I was safer than I had ever been in my life.

“Elena?” Vincent murmured against my ear.

“Hm?”

“If another pipe ever bursts,” he whispered with a low, teasing chuckle, “promise me you won't try to fix it yourself.”