My eight-year-old daughter watched Chicago Mafia boss Roman Valente desperately search his empty pocket for his inhaler, then pointed straight at his girlfriend’s purse and whispered, “She put it in there.” Minutes later, one medical form revealed something even worse: Roman’s breathing emergency hadn’t been an accident, because someone inside his own family had planned exactly when he would collapse.

By three o'clock in the morning, the rain had returned to Chicago, beating a steady, soothing rhythm against the high bulletproof windows of the fourth-floor suite.

The power to the estate had been restored. The damaged door had been replaced by Roman’s personal carpenters within two hours, and additional loyal security guards had been posted at every hallway junction.

Amara was fast asleep on the massive king-sized bed in the inner bedroom, wrapped in soft Egyptian cotton sheets, fast asleep with her bear.

I sat on the velvet sofa in the main sitting room, sipping a cup of chamomile tea.

The door to the study opened, and Roman walked out. He had showered and changed into a soft, dark-gray cashmere sweater and black trousers. Without his crisp suits and tactical vests, he looked younger, more human—though no less formidable.

He walked over to the sofa and sat down beside me, leaving a comfortable distance, though his presence seemed to fill the entire room.

"Dr. Silas checked on Vivian," Roman said, resting his elbow on the back of the sofa. "She confessed to everything on camera. Julian promised her three million dollars and a luxury estate in Miami if she helped eliminate me before the quarterly financial audit."

"Why the quarterly audit?" I asked, setting my teacup down on the glass table.

"Because Julian has been embezzling money from our legitimate logistics firm for two years," Roman explained, his jaw setting tightly. "He invested forty million dollars of family funds into an illegal offshore arms operation. The deal went bad three weeks ago. He was broke, facing total exposure, and desperate."

I looked at Roman, seeing the deep, quiet sadness behind his stoic eyes. "It must hurt. Knowing it was your own brother."

Roman looked at the fireplace, the orange light reflecting in his dark eyes. "My father died when I was twenty-two. I raised Julian. I gave him everything he asked for—companies, property, freedom. But some men are born with a black hole inside them, Clara. No matter how much you give them, they only want what belongs to someone else."

He paused, turning his head to look at me.

"I spent five years hiding behind these walls," Roman continued softly. "Ever since the warehouse fire ruined my lungs, I thought my life was reduced to managing damage, keeping wolves at bay, and waiting for my body to give out."

"You built an empire, Roman," I said gently.

"I built a cage," Roman corrected quietly. He reached out, his large hand gently covering mine on the sofa. His warmth seeped through my skin, sending a sweet, electric shiver through my veins. "Until eight o'clock yesterday morning. When an eight-year-old girl pointed at a purse, and her mother looked at me not with fear... but with fierce determination to tell the truth."

"Roman..." My voice came out as a breathy whisper.

"I haven't felt alive in six years, Clara," Roman murmured, his slate-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the rest of the world fade away. "Until I saw you standing in front of Julian’s gun, ready to fight the entire world for your daughter. In that second, I realized I didn't want to just survive anymore. I want to live."

He lifted his hand, his thumb softly tracing the curve of my bottom lip. My pulse hammered against my ribs, wild and uncontrolled.

"Am I scaring you?" he asked softly, his voice full of genuine concern.

"No," I whispered honestly, leaning slightly into his touch. "You're not scaring me at all."

Roman leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing against my cheek. For a beautiful, suspended second, I thought he was going to kiss me.

Then, a quiet knock echoed at the suite doors.

Roman closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting out a soft, resigned sigh. He pulled back slowly, though his hand remained gently wrapped around mine for an extra second before he stood up.

"Yes, Marco?" Roman called out.

Marco opened the door, looking grim. "Boss. Uncle Dominic is downstairs. He’s requested an emergency audience with you before the sunrise council."

Roman’s expression hardened back into the commanding boss of Chicago. "Is he alone?"

"Yes. He turned over his personal sidearm at the gate."

Roman looked back at me. "Stay here. I’ll settle my uncle once and for all."

"Roman," I called out as he reached the door.

He stopped, looking over his shoulder.