When I grow up, I’m going to marry you.” The knife in Alessandro Romano’s hand stopped halfway to his plate.

By sunrise, the Romano estate was locked down like a military fortress.

Fifty heavily armed syndicate soldiers in dark suits patrolled the perimeter grounds. Private armored vehicles were parked along the sweeping driveway, and police cruisers from the city sat near the main gates—their captains having been paid handsomely by Marco DeLuca to keep the media three miles away.

Inside the grand parlor, Clara sat on a velvet sofa while a private estate doctor bandaged a minor cut on her arm from the shattered glass in the bedroom. Sophie was sound asleep on a pile of plush cushions beside her, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, clutching her plush rabbit.

Alessandro stood near the fireplace, listening to Marco report on the aftermath of the night's raid.

"Don Moretti executed the hit from his stronghold in South Chicago," Marco explained, his arm in a black sling. "He knew you were distracted. He thought if he took the west wing, he could break your morale once and for all."

"Where is Moretti now?" Alessandro asked, his voice low and deadly.

"He’s holed up in his estate on the river," Marco replied. "He’s reinforced his perimeter with thirty mercenaries. He knows he failed, and he knows you’re coming."

Alessandro took a slow sip from a glass of water. "Gather the captains. I want every weapon, every asset, and every soldier we own mobilized by noon. We end the Moretti family today."

"Alessandro."

Clara’s voice broke through the quiet room.

Alessandro turned, looking at her. He motioned for Marco to step out, leaving the two of them alone in the warm, firelit parlor.

He walked over to the sofa, sitting down beside her. His face was pale beneath his dark stubble, the bandage over his eyebrow stark against his skin.

"You should be resting," Alessandro said gently.

"You're going to war," Clara stated, her eyes searching his face. "Because of what happened last night."

"I am going to war because Don Moretti crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed," Alessandro corrected softly. "He brought violence into my home. He threatened the people under my protection."

"Is that all we are to you?" Clara asked, her voice dropping into a quiet, vulnerable whisper. "People under your protection?"

Alessandro went silent. He reached out, his long fingers gently picking up Clara’s hand from her lap. He held her fingers in his large, scarred palm, tracing the soft lines of her skin.

"Seven years ago," Alessandro spoke quietly, staring at their joined hands, "when Isabella died in that hospital room, I made a promise to myself. I swore I would never love another human being again. Love in my world is a sentence of death, Clara. It makes you soft. It makes you blind."

He raised his eyes to look at her, his stormy gray gaze burning with an raw, unshielded honesty that made Clara’s heart leap.

"For seven years, I lived in a cemetery," Alessandro continued. "I ran this empire like a dead man walking through a ghost house. And then a three-year-old girl walked into my dining room and told me she was going to marry me."

A tiny, breathless laugh escaped Clara’s lips through her tears.

"And her mother," Alessandro whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her hand, "looked at me not with fear, but with pity. You saw my soul, Clara, when everyone else saw a monster."

Clara leaned forward, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek, feeling the warm, rough stubble beneath her palm. "You aren't a monster, Alessandro. You’re just a man who forgot that he deserves to be happy."

Alessandro closed his eyes, leaning into her touch with a deep, shuddering breath.

"If I go to South Chicago today," Alessandro murmured against her skin, "I need to know that when I return... this house will still have a heart."