Rain hammered the windows of my estate that night, but inside the West Wing, no one dared make a sound.

The next morning, the rain cleared, leaving Lake Michigan covered in a thick blanket of silver fog.

I was sitting at the head of the dining table, reviewing financial spreadsheets on my laptop, when the double doors cracked open.

Salvatore was standing behind a timid Elena. She had been given clean clothes—a soft gray sweater and dark slacks, far too modest for the luxury of the dining hall. Her face was scrubbed clean, revealing high cheekbones and striking emerald-green eyes that held an ocean of grief and weariness.

Behind her legs, peeking out with wide eyes, was Mia.

The little girl was wearing a bright yellow dress that Salvatore had apparently sourced from an emergency courier early this morning. The sight of that splash of yellow against the dark, imposing mahogany of my estate was almost jarring.

"Sit," I said, gesturing to the chair directly to my right.

Elena swallowed hard, her hand resting protectively on Mia's head. "Mr. Moretti... I can stand. I—I wanted to thank you for last night. And to apologize again. We will be gone by noon. I already packed our bag—"

"I didn't tell you to pack," I interrupted, shutting my laptop with a soft snap. "I told you to sit."

She hesitated for a split second, then walked over, pulling out the heavy carved chair. She lifted Mia onto the seat beside her, her hands hovering nervously as if waiting for me to pull out a weapon.

Mia, on the other hand, immediately leaned over the table, her eyes locking onto the silver tray of fresh pastries.

"Strawberries!" she gasped, pointing.

"Mia, manners," Elena whispered urgently, her face blushing crimson.

I reached out with a pair of silver tongs, picked up the largest, ripest strawberry on the platter, and placed it directly onto the child's porcelain plate.

Mia beamed at me. "Thank you, big man."

Elena looked like she was about to faint. "Mia! Say Mr. Moretti!"

"Big man is fine," I muttered, taking a sip of black coffee. I looked across at Elena. "Your husband is Marcus Vance."

The color completely drained from Elena's face. The fragile sense of safety she had felt shattered instantly. She froze, her breathing turning shallow. "You... you know."

"I know everything that happens in this city, Elena. And I know what happened in Indianapolis. I know why you ran."

She lowered her head, tears threatening to spill over her dark eyelashes. "Then you know he won't stop. He doesn't care about the rules. He will kill me, and he will sell Mia to anyone who will pay his debts. If you know who he is, you should throw us out. Keeping us here will bring trouble to your doorstep."

I set my coffee cup down against the saucer with a sharp *clink*.

"Elena," I said, my tone absolute. "This city does not belong to Marcus Vance. It belongs to me. A low-level animal from Indiana does not dictate what happens behind my gates."

"You don't know him," she whispered, a shudder running through her slender frame. "He is pure evil."

"And what do they call me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Elena looked up, meeting my gaze. Her eyes flickered with fear, but beneath the fear, there was an unmistakable spark of defiance. "They call you the Devil of Lake Shore Drive."

A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of my lips. "Then Marcus Vance should pray he never meets me. You and your daughter will stay in the West Wing. You will not leave the grounds without my personal detail. In exchange, you will continue your housekeeping duties on the third floor, away from the syndicate business."

"Why?" Elena asked, her voice cracking with raw emotion. "Why would a man like you help a woman like me? What do you want from us?"

Before I could answer, Mia grabbed my hand.

Her fingers were sticky with strawberry juice. She smeared it unapologetically across my four-thousand-dollar Swiss watch as she tugged at my cuff.

"You have a boo-boo," she said, pointing at a jagged white scar running across my wrist—a souvenir from a machete fight in Palermo eight years ago.

She leaned down and pressed a soft, warm kiss directly against the scar.

"All better," she declared proudly, smiling up at me with sticky cheeks.

I froze.

My entire life, people had looked at my scars with dread, disgust, or calculating ambition. No one had ever kissed them. No one had ever looked at the violence etched into my flesh and tried to make it heal.

I looked at Elena. Her breath hitched, her green eyes wide with awe and apprehension.