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

A month after the downfall of Salvatore Falcone, the Mercer estate underwent a massive transformation.

The dark, oppressive fortress of limestone and black glass was bathed in bright sunlight. The heavy blackout curtains had been torn down, replaced with sheer linen that let the breeze sweep through the broad halls. French doors were installed along the ground floor, leading out to freshly paved, smooth oak ramps that allowed Jonah to navigate the entire forty-acre property seamlessly.

Despite his reclaimed empire, Jonah’s real battle was happening every single afternoon in the newly built, sunlit rehabilitation gym.

Riley stood at the end of a long set of padded parallel bars.

Jonah was wearing a workout shirt and gym shorts. For the first time in seven months, he was wearing custom carbon-fiber leg braces locked at his knees.

He was sitting in his chair at the start of the bars, staring at the parallel handrails like they were his mortal enemies.

"You can do this, Jonah," Riley said softly, her voice filled with quiet, unshakable belief. "Just one step. Using your trunk and upper body strength."

"Riley..." Jonah breathed, sweat dripping down his temple, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. "If I fall..."

"If you fall, I catch you," she said firmly. "Like I always do."

Jonah took a deep breath. He grabbed the heavy steel parallel bars with his massive hands. He grunted, his upper back muscles straining, his powerful shoulders flexing as he used his upper body to push himself up out of the wheelchair.

His legs, locked in the carbon-fiber braces, straightened under him.

Jonah Mercer stood up.

He was six-foot-two. Standing above her, his shadow covered her, broad, massive, and towering. His body wobbled violently as his core fought to maintain balance, the nerve damage causing his frame to shake.

Riley stepped right between the bars, placing her hands securely around his waist, acting as his human anchor.

"Look at me," Riley commanded softly. "Don't look at your feet. Look at me."

Jonah locked his gray eyes onto hers. He shifted his weight using his shoulders, swung his right hip forward, and planted his right foot six inches ahead.

One step.

Tears welled in Jonah’s eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming, crushing triumph of a man reclaiming his dignity.

"One step," Riley whispered, her own tears spilling over her eyelashes, smiling up at him. "You did it, Jonah."

Jonah didn't take a second step. Instead, he leaned forward, using the bars to support his weight, and wrapped his arms tightly around Riley’s waist, pulling her flush against his chest.

"I didn't do it alone," Jonah rasped into her hair, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. "I will never do anything alone again."

That night, they lay together in Jonah’s massive king-sized bed.

The windows were open, allowing the cool Maryland autumn breeze to rustle the curtains. Riley was lying on her side, her head resting against Jonah’s bare chest, tracing the silvery battle scars over his ribs with her fingertips.

Jonah’s heavy arm was wrapped securely around her waist, his fingers idly playing with her hair.

"I called my lawyer today," Jonah said quietly into the dim room.

Riley shifted slightly, looking up at his jawline. "Oh? Is Frank getting sued for smashing up Falcone’s boat?"

Jonah chuckled softly, a low rumble against her cheek. "No. I restructured the Mercer Holding Corporation."

He reached over to his nightstand, pulled out a thick leather document, and handed it to her.

Riley opened it under the soft light of the bedside lamp. Her eyes scanned the legal jargon until she reached the bold text near the center:

THE QUINN REHABILITATION & RESPITE FOUNDATION Fully endowed with fifty million dollars in capital funding, under the permanent direction of Riley Quinn, RN.

Riley stared at the paper. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. "Jonah... what is this?"

"You spent seven years working for pennies in underfunded rehab centers," Jonah said, his eyes dark and burning with pure devotion. "You're too good at what you do to be fixing broken mobsters like me forever. This foundation will build three state-of-the-art respite centers across Maryland for low-income spinal cord injury patients. You run it. Your rules. No authority being stupid."

Riley dropped the papers onto the floor, her chest heaving as tears flooded her eyes.

"You idiot," she sobbed, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his face, his cheek, his lips. "You incredible, arrogant, beautiful idiot..."