Three bullets tore into my body because I threw myself between a gunman and the six-year-old heir to New York’s most feared billionaire mafia family

I woke up three days later in the master suite of Blackthorne House.

The storm had passed. Bright, pale winter sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the snow-dusted lawns rolling down toward the Hudson River.

My shoulder was throbbing, but clean, fresh bandages held me together. The IV lines were gone, replaced by a warm blanket and the soft scent of fresh lilies on the nightstand.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his head resting against the mattress beside my hand, was Caleb.

He was fast asleep, still clutching his one-eared teddy bear, breathing softly.

I moved my fingers, gently brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead.

"He refused to sleep in his room," a deep voice rumbled from the corner.

Dominic stood near the window, dressed in a simple black cashmere sweater and dark trousers. He held two cups of coffee, his face lines softer than I had ever seen them, though the lethal intensity in his eyes remained untouched.

He walked over, setting a cup on the bedside table, before sitting on the opposite edge of the mattress, looking down at his son.

"He told Nolan that nobody could guard you better than him," Dominic murmured, a faint trace of amusement in his tone. "He said you were his partner."

"He saved his own life up there," I whispered, my voice rough from disuse. "He remembered to fight."

Dominic looked up from Caleb, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin.

"The police found Lucian's body on the roof of a parked delivery van," Dominic said quietly. "The medical examiner ruled it an accidental fall during a private syndicate altercation. The Vance files were recovered from his safe house in Queens. The entire network has been dismantled. It's over, Elena."

I flinched slightly at the name.

"You don't have to call me that," I said, looking away toward the snow. "Elena Vance died eight years ago in Boston. She died the night she realized her family was a monster."

Dominic reached across the bed, his large, warm hand covering mine, his fingers tangling with mine with an unyielding, possessive grip that left no room for retreat.

"Elena Vance is dead," Dominic agreed softly. "And Mara Ellis was a maid who worked for five hundred dollars a week. Who are you now?"

I looked back at him, seeing the raw vulnerability beneath the terrifying billionaire kingpin. For the first time, he wasn't interrogating me. He was asking for something he couldn't take by force.

"I don't know," I admitted, my voice trembling slightly. "I spent eight years running from one cage to another. I don't know who I am when nobody is hunting me."

"Then stay here and figure it out," Dominic said.

My heart skipped a beat. "Dominic..."

"I'm not offering you a job, Mara," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that deep, intoxicating baritone that sent shivers racing down my spine. "I'm offering you a home. Caleb needs you. And God help me, after watching you bleed on that ballroom floor, I know I'm never letting you walk out of these gates."

Before I could answer, Caleb stirred, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his little fist.

He blinked up at me, his face lighting up with a radiant, gap-toothed smile. "Mara! You're awake!"

"Hey, little prince," I whispered, smiling through the tears prickling my eyes.

Caleb scrambled up, throwing his tiny arms carefully around my uninjured neck, burying his face in my hair. "Dad said you weren't going to disappear anymore. He said you were staying forever."

I looked over Caleb's small shoulder at Dominic.

The king of New York was watching me with an unreadable, intense gaze, waiting for my sentence.