Before the bullet, Jonah Mercer could shut down half the Baltimore waterfront with one phone call.

Before Marcus could react, Frank pressed a remote button on the wall. The heavy steel shutters over the library windows slammed down with a deafening roar, locking the room into complete darkness save for the dim overhead chandelier.

Marcus leaped up, his hand going for his waistband. "Jonah, what the hell is this?"

"Sit down, Marcus," Jonah said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Riley’s neck stand up. "You think because I was lying in a hospital bed for six months, I lost my mind? You were the one who called Falcone the night I was ambushed on Interstate 95. You gave him my motorcade route."

Riley’s eyes widened. She instinctively gripped the back of Jonah’s wheelchair, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"You have no proof!" Marcus snarled, his face twisting into a mask of rage.

"I don't need a court of law, Marcus," Jonah said softly. "This is the waterfront. I have the bank records of your shell company in the Cayman Islands. Falcone wired you three million dollars two days after my surgery."

Jonah raised his hand. "Frank."

Frank didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, drawing his suppressed pistol, and struck Marcus across the temple with the heavy steel barrel. Marcus collapsed onto the thick oriental rug, unconscious and bleeding profusely.

The other two lieutenants in the room stood frozen, their hands raised in immediate surrender, drenched in cold sweat.

"Take him to the basement," Jonah ordered coldly. "We will deal with Falcone’s intelligence network tomorrow."

As Frank and two guards dragged Marcus out of the room, the library fell into a heavy, suffocating quiet.

Riley stood glued to the spot. Her hands were shaking. She had worked in trauma ERs, she had seen blood, but she had never seen a man destroyed with such clinical, terrifying authority.

Jonah turned his chair around to face her. The cold, ruthless mob boss persona cracked slightly as he saw the pale color of her skin.

"Now you know what kind of house you are in, Riley," Jonah said softly. "I will not blame you if you pack your bag and leave tonight. Frank will drive you anywhere you want to go. I will pay you double your salary for the week."

Riley stared at him. She looked at the blood smudge on the rug, then at Jonah’s dark, guarded eyes. She saw the profound isolation in his soul—a man surrounded by killers, living in a fortress, utterly alone in his broken body.

She walked over to him, pulled a hand sanitizer bottle from her pocket, squeezed a dollop onto her palms, and rubbed her hands together.

"Your blood pressure is probably 160 over 100," Riley said, her voice trembling slightly before settling into her trademark stubborn tone. "And you skipped your evening muscle relaxant. Get back to your room, Mercer. You have therapy at seven tomorrow morning."

Jonah stared at her in absolute shock. "You're not leaving?"

"I told you," Riley said, stepping behind his chair and taking hold of the rubber handles. "I'm bad with authority when authority is being stupid. And you leaving your neurological health to chance is the peak of stupidity. Now move."

Later that night, around 2:00 AM, a violent thunderstorm rolled over Baltimore. Thunder rattled the heavy glass panes of the estate.

Riley couldn't sleep. She walked down the quiet, dimly lit hallway toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As she passed the library, she saw a slice of light spilling through the doorway.

She peeked inside.

Jonah was sitting alone by the vast floor-to-ceiling window, looking out into the rain-slicked gardens. He wasn't wearing his shirt. He was holding a glass of scotch in his right hand, but his hand was trembling violently—neuropathic nerve pain shooting through his upper body. He tried to lift the glass to his lips, but his fingers buckled, and the heavy crystal glass slipped from his grip, shattering on the floor.

Jonah closed his eyes, his chest heaving with silent, agonizing frustration. He smashed his fist against the armrest of his wheelchair once, twice, three times, cursing in a raw, broken whisper.

"Damn it... damn it!"

Riley didn't stay in the doorway. She walked inside, ignoring the broken glass, and sat down on the leather footstool right beside his wheelchair.

"Go away, Riley," Jonah rasped, his eyes closed, his jaw locked tight. "Just go away."

"No," she said gently.

She didn't try to pick up the glass. Instead, she reached out and gently laid her soft, warm hands over his trembling right hand, interlacing her fingers with his.

Jonah tried to pull away, but she held on, wrapping both of her hands around his, offering her warmth, her strength, her solid presence.

"It's phantom pain, isn't it?" she asked softly. "The damaged spinal nerves sending false signals."

Jonah swallowed hard, his head tilting back against the headrest. "It feels like my legs are on fire... and my hands feel like they're encased in ice. I can shut down a rival syndicate in ten minutes, Riley... but I can't even hold a damn glass of water."

"You don't have to be invincible every second of the day, Jonah," Riley whispered, her thumb gently stroking the back of his scarred knuckles. "Not with me."

Jonah opened his dark eyes and looked down at her. In the dim moonlight, her hazel eyes were soft, filled with an unbearable warmth that shattered every defense he had built around his heart for thirty-five years.

Slowly, Jonah lifted his other hand—his left hand—and reached out. His fingers gently traced the small, healing paper cut above her right eyebrow, his touch unbelievably tender for a man who commanded an underworld empire.