No caretaker had lasted more than three days with me after the accident, and I made damn sure of it

The purge took forty-eight hours.

By the third night, Matteo Rossi’s entire distribution network had collapsed. Carmine and my enforcers tore through the South Side railyards and the docklands like a scythe through wheat. Five warehouse properties were seized; three of Rossi’s top lieutenants flipped to my side after Carmine presented them with the photographic evidence of Elena’s confession.

Rossi was cornered. He had retreated to his private fortified estate near Lake Forest, surrounded by a dozen hired guns who were charging him double by the hour because they knew a dead man was writing the checks.

Inside my mansion, the tension was strung so tight you could play a funeral dirge on it.

It was two in the morning. I was in the physical therapy suite, alone in the dim amber light.

I was on the parallel bars again. My shirt was gone, discarded on the floor, my torso drenched in sweat, every muscle in my back and chest screaming under the strain. But tonight was different. Tonight, I wasn't fighting the deadness in my legs with blind, stupid rage.

I closed my eyes. I remembered the warmth of Faith’s hand against my thigh. I remembered the sensation of her pulse beating against my palm, the sound of her voice telling me that I was a man, not a broken machine.

*Push.*

I shifted my weight to my left side, engaged my core, and sent the command down my spine.

My right foot moved forward two inches.

It wasn't a spasm. It wasn't an involuntary reflex. The rubber sole of my sneaker scraped against the blue mat, dragging forward with deliberate, conscious intent.

A sharp, jagged line of real, physical pain shot up from my ankle into my hip. It was agonizing, it was raw, and it was the most glorious feeling I had ever experienced in my thirty-six years of life.

"Dominic?"

I froze, locked between the bars, trembling from head to toe.

Faith was standing in the doorway, wearing a simple white tank top and gray sweatpants, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in loose waves. She stopped dead, her eyes dropping to my feet, then rising to my face.

"You’re standing," she whispered.

"I’m holding myself up," I corrected, my voice ragged, my arms shaking violently. "There’s a difference."

"No," she said, stepping into the room, her voice breathless with wonder. "Look at your right foot. You moved it."

"It’s two inches, Faith. I can't walk."

"You moved it," she repeated, coming up to the edge of the bars. She didn't touch the chrome. She stepped directly into the space between the bars, standing less than six inches from my chest. "Do it again."

"I can't. My shoulders are tearing apart."

"Look at me, Dominic," she said softly, placing her hands on my bare chest, right over my pounding heart. Her touch sent a jolt through my entire nervous system that had nothing to do with medicine. "You survived twelve bullets. You survived digitalis. You can move two more inches."

I looked into those hazel eyes, flecked with gold, burning with an unshakeable belief that made me feel ten feet tall.

I clamped my jaw shut. I pulled the air deep into my diaphragm, held it, and willed my left leg to match the right.

The muscle in my left calf twitched. Then, with a slow, agonizing drag, the left sneaker slid forward, leveling with the right.

I had taken half a step.

The exertion was too much. My arms gave out, my knees buckled, and I fell forward.

Faith caught me. She didn't have the strength to hold my full weight, but she broke the fall, her arms wrapping tight around my shoulders as we both tumbled down onto the thick exercise mat.

I landed on top of her, rolling instantly to my side to keep from crushing her with my heavy frame.

We were tangled together, chest to chest, our breaths mingling in the cool night air of the gym. Her hair was spread across the blue mat like silk, her chest heaving against mine, her eyes wide, dark, dilated with something that was no longer fear, and no longer defiance.

"You took a step," she breathed, her lips inches from mine.

"Because of you," I said, my hand coming up to cradle the side of her neck, my thumb stroking the soft skin along her jawline. "It’s only because of you, Faith."

"Dominic..."

I didn't let her finish. I pulled her to me and kissed her.

The kiss was fierce, desperate, breaking through six months of cold, bitter isolation like a dam giving way before a flood. Faith gasped against my mouth, then her arms wound around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me down until there was no space left between us.

She tasted like sweet tea and honey, a pure, clean light that burned away the darkness that had lived in my soul for years. For the first time since the ambush, I didn't feel like a phantom. I felt alive. Every nerve ending in my upper body was on fire with desire, with possessiveness, with a fierce, protective love that terrified me more than any bullet ever had.

When I finally pulled back, resting my forehead against hers, we were both panting, our hearts hammering against each other in wild sync.

"I’m not letting you go," I whispered against her lips. "You know that, don't you? If you stay tonight, you’re mine."

Faith looked up at me, her eyes clear, unwavering, beautiful beyond measure.

"I’m not going anywhere, Dominic," she said.