A powerful socialite raised her hand to slap an elderly woman in a wheelchair, and I stopped her in front of Chicago’s richest and most dangerous people. I thought I had only protected a helpless stranger—until I realized the woman was the mother of Dominic DeLuca, the city’s most feared man, and he had witnessed everything.

The fire roared like a hungry beast, spreading across the oil-stained floorboards toward my chair within seconds.

Thick black smoke billowed toward the rafters, suffocating the air.

Vivian gasped, dropping her gun in panic as the flames licked at her dress, and fled through a side exit into the rainy alleyway outside.

I coughed violently, blind from the smoke, heat searing my face.

"Grace!"

Through the wall of orange fire, a shadow burst forward.

Dominic didn't hesitate. He charged straight through the flames, his clothes catching fire for a second before he beat the sparks out with his bare hands.

He reached my chair.

He pulled a heavy tactical knife from his belt and slashed through the ropes around my wrists and ankles in three swift strokes.

"I've got you," Dominic gasped, pulling me up into his arms, lifting me off my feet as the roof beams above us began to groan and crack.

He carried me through the blazing maze of the burning warehouse, using his own body to shield me from falling embers and roaring heat.

He kicked open the side metal door, bursting out into the freezing cold rain of the alleyway.

We collapsed together onto the wet asphalt.

Dominic fell onto his back, gasping for air, his chest heaving, his hands covered in soot and minor burns.

I scrambled onto his chest, burying my face into his neck, sobbing uncontrollably as the rain washed the black soot from our faces.

Four security cars tore down the alleyway, their sirens wailing. Frank and ten armed guards jumped out, running toward us.

"Don DeLuca!" Frank shouted, pulling his radio out. "The police have secured Vivian Whitmore at the end of the block! Are you hurt?!"

Dominic didn't answer Frank.

He reached up, wrapping his broad, warm hands around my cheeks, pulling my face down until our lips met in a fierce, desperate, rain-soaked kiss that tasted of smoke, salt, and victory.

"You're safe," Dominic whispered against my lips, his dark eyes shining with tears he didn't bother to hide. "You're safe, my love."

One year later.

The sun shone brightly over the manicured green lawns of the DeLuca estate in Oak Brook.

The air smelled of fresh roses, sweet jasmine, and clear autumn rain.

A massive white marquee was set up in the center garden, decorated with thousands of white roses and crystal chandeliers hanging from velvet ropes.

Sitting in the front row was my mother, Ellen, looking vibrant and healthy in an elegant plum-colored dress, no longer connected to machines, holding my brother Noah’s hand as they both laughed happily.

Beside them sat Margaret DeLuca, wearing a beautiful silver lace gown, her face glowing with radiant pride.

Standing at the altar under a canopy of white orchids was Dominic.

He looked impossibly handsome in a black velvet tuxedo, his dark hair combed back, his eyes locked onto the end of the aisle with an intense, unshakeable focus.

The music of the harp began to play.

I stepped onto the white carpet, holding a bouquet of white roses.

My wedding dress was a masterpiece of French lace and silk, trailing behind me over the stone path. My hair was pinned up with tiny pearl pins, my skin glowing under the warm Chicago sun.

I didn't look at the two hundred guests—the judges, the politicians, the business leaders, and the staff from The Bellamy who had been invited as honored guests.

I only looked at Dominic.

When I reached the altar, Dominic stepped forward, taking both of my hands in his.

His hands were broad, strong, and warm—the hands that had protected his mother, defeated his enemies, and pulled me out of the fire.

The priest began the ceremony, but Dominic didn't wait for his cue.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn, slightly crumpled black paper napkin from The Bellamy—the napkin I had used to wipe spilled champagne a year ago.

"One year ago, Grace," Dominic said, his deep baritone voice echoing through the silent garden, vibrating with profound emotion, "I watched a girl with a big heart stand up to a room full of monsters to protect a helpless old woman."

He smiled—that rare, brilliant smile that belonged only to me.

"I thought I was bringing you into my house to protect my mother," Dominic continued, his thumb gently caressing my ring finger. "I had no idea that you were coming to save me. You healed my family. You gave me a home. You proved that love is stronger than fear, blood, or money."

Tears of pure, unadulterated happiness slipped down my cheeks.

I leaned in, not waiting for the priest to finish, and pressed my lips against his.

The crowd erupted into thunderous, standing applause.

Dominic wrapped his broad arms around my waist, lifting me off my feet and spinning me around under the sun, his deep laughter echoing across the forty-acre estate.