Six hours of screaming had pushed Dominic Moretti to the edge, and everyone inside the Chicago restaurant knew better than to go near him. Then I crossed the dining room, looked the most feared mafia boss in the city straight in the eye, and told him, “You’re hurting your own baby.”

For the next two weeks, the Moretti estate became my sanctuary and my gilded cage.

Mateo blossomed. Under the new feeding routine and proper pediatric care, he gained two pounds, his skin cleared up, and his colic vanished. The high-pitched wails that had tortured him were replaced by soft, happy coos and deep, long naps.

My days revolved around Mateo, but my evenings slowly began to revolve around Dominic.

He was a man of terrifying efficiency. During the day, men in dark suits arrived at the estate, filing into his private study in the East Wing. Heavy voices, hushed arguments about shipping docks, territory lines, and the rival Falcone syndicate echoed down the halls.

But every evening at seven o'clock, regardless of who was in his study, Dominic walked into the nursery.

He would remove his shoulder holster, toss his gun into a locked safe by the door, roll up his sleeves, and sit on the floor with Mateo.

I watched him learn how to hold a bottle, how to burp the baby over his broad shoulder, and how to gently change a diaper without ripping the tiny tabs—a process that had taken the terrifying mob boss three hilarious, frustrating attempts to master.

"You're staring," Dominic said one evening, sitting on the plush nursery rug with Mateo resting on his thighs.

I was sitting in the rocking chair, folding a stack of tiny onesies. "I'm just observing my student. Your latching technique on the bottle has improved."

Dominic grunted, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. "Don't get cocky, Nurse Vance."

Mateo let out a happy gurgle, his tiny hands reaching up to bat at Dominic’s dark jawline. Dominic caught his son’s tiny hand with his pinky finger, letting the infant hold on with a surprisingly firm grip.

"He has your eyes," I remarked softly.

"God help him," Dominic replied quietly. He looked up at me, his gaze lingering on my face. "You haven't asked about your pay."

"You transferred twenty thousand dollars into my bank account last Tuesday," I said, setting down the folded clothes. "It was more than enough to clear my back rent."

"You earned every penny," Dominic said. "Frank told me you tried to walk to the local grocery store yesterday to buy fresh fruit."

"I like walking," I replied. "And your guards nearly tackled me at the front gate."

Dominic’s jaw tightened. "Chicago is dangerous right now, Clara. Lucian Falcone is looking for any sign of vulnerability in my organization. Until I settle the dispute over the river terminals, no one in this house leaves without an escort."

"I'm not a member of your house, Dominic," I pointed out gently. "I'm a employee."

Dominic didn't answer immediately. He set Mateo gently down into his Moses basket on the floor and stood up, walking toward my chair. His broad frame blocked out the light, casting a long shadow over me.

"You think you're just an employee?" he asked softly, leaning down, placing his hands on the wooden arms of my rocking chair, trapping me between his arms.

My breath caught in my throat. The room felt suddenly warm. "I... I have a life outside here, Dominic. Eventually, I have to go back to it."

"What life?" Dominic asked, his eyes probing mine with uncomfortable accuracy. "The small apartment with no furniture? The restaurant job that paid you pennies? The ghost you've been running from for four years?"

I flinched as if he had struck me. I pushed against his chest, but he was like an iron wall. "You don't know anything about my past!"

"I know everything about you, Clara," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a tender, haunting cadence. "I ran a background check the night I brought you here. Clara Vance. Former honors student at Chicago Presbyterian School of Nursing. Married at twenty-two. Lost a son named Leo at twenty-three to an undiagnosed congenital heart defect. Divorced six months later. Dropped out of school."

Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and furious. "How dare you!"

"I'm not throwing it in your face," Dominic said fiercely, his hand rising to cup the back of my neck, his thumb wiping a tear from my cheek before it could fall. "I'm telling you that I know what it means to carry a broken heart, Clara. When my wife died, I felt nothing. But when I thought Mateo was going to die in that restaurant, I felt like my soul was being torn out of my chest. You saved him. You saved me."

"Dominic..." I whispered, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.

"Don't leave," Dominic breathed, his face inches from mine. "Stay here. Be his nurse. Be his guardian. Be..."

He cut himself off, his eyes dropping to my lips.

Before he could finish the sentence, the house alarm blared.

Red security lights flashed in the hallway, accompanied by the deafening roar of a siren.