The screen of Nora’s phone went dark. For two terrifying seconds, the Manhattan skyline outside Dante Moretti’s floor-to-ceiling windows seemed to tilt on its axis.

The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a shimmering ocean of crystal chandeliers, sparkling champagne flutes, and elite socialites dressed in designer tuxedos and evening gowns.

When the heavy mahogany doors swung open, the murmurs in the room instantly died down.

Every head turned toward the entrance.

Dante Moretti stepped into the ballroom. He wasn't in a wheelchair. He walked with a slight, controlled limp, his broad shoulders squared, wearing a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, looking every bit the undisputed king of New York.

By his side walked Nora Walsh, stunning in an emerald silk evening gown that caught the chandelier light with every step, her head held high, radiating fierce grace and undeniable strength.

As they walked down the grand staircase, the crowd parted in respectful, awestruck silence.

Dante caught sight of several rival syndicate leaders whispering nervously in the corner. He didn't blink, and he didn't look away. He simply offered them a cold, knowing smile that made every single one of them look down at their shoes.

He looked down at Nora, who smiled back up at him, her hand resting securely in the crook of his arm.

The poison, the betrayal, the gunfights, and the shadows of the past felt a million miles away.