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.

By six o'clock that evening, my entire life had been dismantled and reassembled in a different galaxy.

A moving team sent by DeLuca Enterprises had cleared out my tiny apartment in less than two hours. My brother Noah was picked up from school in a dark sedan and brought straight to the DeLuca estate in Oak Brook—a massive forty-acre compound surrounded by ten-foot stone walls, wrought-iron gates, and armed security personnel posted discreetly among the oak trees.

The main house was a breathtaking French country mansion made of limestone and slate, surrounded by manicured rose gardens and stone fountains.

My room was on the second floor of the East Wing.

It was larger than my entire previous apartment. A king-sized bed covered in cream silk sheets sat opposite a marble fireplace where a fire was already crackling. French doors opened onto a private balcony overlooking the misty gardens.

When I stepped into the room, a large wardrobe made of dark cherry wood stood open, filled with high-end wool sweaters, silk blouses, tailored trousers, and leather boots—all fitted precisely to my measurements.

A soft knock sounded at the open door.

I turned around. Dominic stood in the doorway, holding a thick leather folder under his arm. He had changed into a dark navy suit without a tie, his collar open at the throat.

"Is the room satisfactory?" he asked, stepping inside.

"It's... it's absurd, Mr. DeLuca," I murmured, touching the soft cashmere of a sweater hanging in the wardrobe. "You didn't have to buy me clothes."

"My mother takes daily walks through the gardens," Dominic replied, walking toward the window and looking out into the dusk. "The weather is turning cold. I don't need my mother's companion freezing because she spent her money on rent."

He turned back to face me, his hands resting in his trouser pockets.

"Your mother, Ellen, was transferred to Northwestern Memorial's private pavilion two hours ago," Dominic added casually, as if he were discussing the weather. "Dr. Harrison, the top pulmonologist in the Midwest, has taken over her case. She has been moved into a private suite with round-the-clock specialized care."

My hands began to tremble. I covered my mouth with my fingers, a hot tear escaping my eye and slipping down my cheek.

"Why are you doing all of this?" I sobbed softly, unable to hold back the overwhelming surge of emotion. "The contract... the money was enough. Why transfer my mother? Why buy clothes for me?"

Dominic stared at me for a long, silent moment.

He stepped closer, his heavy leather shoes silent on the Persian rug. He reached out, his broad, warm hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before his thumb gently wiped the wet tear from my cheek.

His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle for a man whose name terrified the city.

"In my world, Grace," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rasp, "people only help you when they want something from you. They smile when they want your money, and they bow when they want your power. Last night, you didn't know who my mother was. You didn't know who I was. You put yourself in danger for an old woman because your heart told you to."

He pulled his hand back, his dark eyes darkening further.

"A heart like that is rare in Chicago," he whispered. "I intend to protect it."

Before I could answer, a sudden comms radio on his belt buzzed sharply.

"Don DeLuca," Frank’s voice crackled through the speaker. "We have a situation at the South Gate. It's Lorenzo Moretti. He brought four vehicles. He’s demanding to speak with you regarding the shipping contracts."

The warmth in the room vanished in a single instant.

Dominic’s face hardened back into stone. The gentle man who had just wiped my tear disappeared, replaced by the terrifying Don of Chicago.

"Tell Lorenzo I will be down in two minutes," Dominic said into the radio, his voice flat and deadly.