The sound of a hammer pulling back on a firearm inside my own sanctuary was a mistake no man in my business survived twice.

By six o'clock the following morning, the sun rose over Chicago, painting the lakefront in brilliant shades of orange and gold.

Ashford House was quiet again.

My loyal perimeter teams—the ones who hadn't been bought by Julian—had arrived to clear the courtyard, tow away the wrecked vehicles, and process the captured cartel operators. The police commissioner, a man who owed his career to my financial backing, personally ensured that the incident was classified as a "domestic security breach" and kept entirely out of the news.

Inside the mansion’s private family suite, the warm smell of fresh coffee and toasted bread filled the air.

Ava was resting comfortably on the soft leather sofa, her leg elevated, watching a movie on the large screen. Harper sat beside her, eating breakfast, while Emma ran around the room playing with a pair of soft plush toys.

Claire sat at the kitchen counter, dressed in a clean sweater and jeans, holding a warm mug of tea. Her hands were slightly bruised, and a small butterfly bandage covered the cut above her eyebrow.

I stepped out of my private study, wearing a clean suit, my chest wrapped tightly in medical bandages beneath my shirt.

Emma saw me first. "Daddy!"

She ran across the room and wrapped her tiny arms around my knees. I scooped her up into my arms, wincing slightly as my broken ribs protested, and kissed her cheek.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" I asked softly.

"I'm happy," Emma said, pointing her tiny finger toward the counter. "Claire is staying forever, right?"

I looked across the room at Claire.

She paused, setting her teacup down, her dark eyes looking at me with a mixture of uncertainty and quiet hope.

"Emma, baby," Claire said softly, walking over toward us. "I told you, I was just hired to help for a little while..."

"No," Emma insisted, her small voice firm and resolute. "You fixed Ava. You fixed Daddy. You stay."

I set Emma down gently on the floor. She ran off to play with her sisters, leaving Claire and me standing together in the soft morning light.

"She's right, you know," I said quietly, leaning against the counter.

Claire shook her head slightly, offering a bitter smile. "Marcus, I'm a former military contractor with a dishonorable discharge hanging over my head because I disobeyed a direct order to save my unit. I have a rap sheet in three countries, a body full of scars, and enough post-traumatic stress to fill a library. I'm not a nanny."

"And I'm a mob boss who just survived a siege in my own living room," I replied smoothly, stepping closer to her. "I think our red flags match quite nicely."

Claire let out a soft, beautiful laugh—a sound so bright and genuine it seemed to dispel the remaining shadows of the violent night.

"I mean it, Marcus," she whispered, her expression turning serious. "Your world is dangerous. My world was violent. If I stay here..."

"If you stay here," I interrupted, taking her hand in mine, feeling the warm, strong pulse in her fingers, "you won't be a maid. You won't be a bodyguard. You'll be part of this family."

Claire looked down at our joined hands, her lower lip trembling slightly as three years of loneliness, war, and pain seemed to melt away under the warmth of my grip.