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 main library was transformed into a medical room within fifteen minutes.

Dr. Harrison, a gentle silver-haired physician who had treated the DeLuca family for twenty years, carefully cleaned the wound on my left shoulder.

I sat on the leather sofa, wrapped in a warm blanket, clutching a mug of hot tea that Margaret had insisted on pouring for me herself.

"It's a clean cut, Don DeLuca," Dr. Harrison reported, pulling off his latex gloves. "Seven stitches. No muscle damage, no glass remaining in the tissue. She was very lucky."

Dominic stood near the cold marble fireplace, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His navy shirt was stained with my dark blood near his shoulder. He hadn't changed. He hadn't washed his hands.

He looked like a statue of vengeance waiting for a signal.

"Thank you, Doctor," Dominic said flatly. "Frank will see you out."

When the doctor left, Margaret walked over, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.

"Go rest, child," Margaret whispered softly. "Dominic will take care of everything."

When Margaret left the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind her, the silence that settled between Dominic and me was heavy, suffocating, and charged with electricity.

Dominic walked slowly across the Persian rug, stopping right in front of the sofa.

He knelt down, his large frame towering over me even while on his knees. He reached out, his broad hand hovering over my bandaged shoulder, his dark eyes burning with an emotion so intense it made my heart stop.

"Why did you do that?" he asked softly, his voice raspy with emotion.

"I promised to protect her," I whispered, looking into his dark, tortured eyes. "It's my job."

"Your job is to accompany her to the garden, Grace!" Dominic growled softly, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Your job is not to take glass for her! You could have been killed!"

"And what was I supposed to do?!" I countered, my own voice rising with unexpected emotion. "Watch an elderly woman get cut to pieces?! I couldn't do that, Dominic! Just like I couldn't watch Vivian slap her!"

Dominic stared at me.

His name on my lips—Dominic, not Mr. DeLuca—seemed to strike him like a physical blow.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them, the cold distance he maintained with the rest of the world was completely gone.

"You are insane, Grace Miller," he whispered, his thumb slowly tracing my jawline, sending a wave of electric shivers through my body. "You are completely, hopelessly insane."

"I'm not insane," I breathed, my face inches from his. "I just care about the people in this house."

Dominic’s breath hitched. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against mine. I could feel the intense heat of his skin, the frantic beat of his pulse at his throat.

"I spent ten years making sure nobody could ever hurt me," Dominic rasped against my skin. "I built walls around this house, around my money, around my name. And in two weeks, you walked through my gates and tore every wall down without firing a single shot."

He pulled back slightly, looking deep into my eyes.

"The stone was thrown by a mercenary hired by Lorenzo Moretti," Dominic said coldly, his tone darkening. "He wanted to show me that my house wasn't safe. He wanted to intimidate me."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, fear for him rising in my chest.

Dominic stood up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small silver key, placing it gently in my palm.

"I am going to finish this tonight," Dominic said flatly. "This key unlocks the safe in my private study. Inside are property deeds, trust funds, and passports for you, your brother, and your mother. If I do not return by sunrise... Frank will take you to Italy."

My heart dropped into my stomach. I stood up from the sofa, ignoring the sharp pain in my shoulder, and grabbed his forearm.

"No," I pleaded, my eyes brimming with tears. "Dominic, no! Don't go!"

Dominic looked down at my small hand clutching his arm.