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 hours between midnight and 5:00 AM were the longest of my life.

I didn't go to my bedroom. I didn't lock myself in the study.

I sat on the top step of the grand marble staircase in the main foyer, wrapped in my wool blanket, clutching the small silver key in my hand until the metal dug into my palm.

Margaret sat on the sofa in the library nearby, holding her rosary beads, her lips moving in silent, rhythmic prayer.

Outside, the wind howled through the oak trees, driving cold rain against the high windows.

Every thirty minutes, the security radio on the main desk would chirp with brief, cryptic updates from Frank:

"Sector 4 clear."

"North docks secured."

"Package located."

Then, at 4:45 AM, absolute silence fell over the radio.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.

"Grace..." Margaret called out softly from the library door, her face pale with worry. "Is there any news?"

"Not yet, Margaret," I said, my voice shaking as I stood up from the stairs. "I'm sure he's..."

Before I could finish my sentence, the heavy iron gates at the end of the driveway groaned open.

Headlights cut through the heavy rain outside the glass front doors.

A single black SUV pulled up to the front steps.

I ran down the stairs, my heart pounding so loudly I couldn't hear the wind. I threw open the heavy oak doors, stepping out onto the cold stone porch into the pouring rain.

The driver's door opened. Frank stepped out, looking exhausted, his suit jacket splattered with mud.

He walked around to the rear door and pulled it open.

Dominic stepped out.

His trench coat was soaked with rain. His right knuckles were bruised and bloody, his tie undone, hanging loose around his collar. His hair was plastered across his forehead.

He looked up at the porch.

When he saw me standing there in the rain, wearing my grey sweater, holding my arms around myself, his dark eyes flared with an intense, overwhelming emotion.

He didn't wait for Frank. He walked up the stone steps in long, heavy strides.

I didn't stop myself. I didn't think about propriety, or contracts, or the fact that he was the most dangerous man in Chicago.

I ran forward and threw my arms around his neck.

Dominic gasped softly as my body slammed against his. His broad, heavy arms wrapped around my waist instantly, hauling me up against his chest, burying his wet face into the crook of my neck.

He held me so tightly I could barely breathe, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast.

"You came back," I sobbed into his wet shoulder. "You came back to me."

"I told you I would," Dominic rasped, his voice rough, shaking with an emotion he could no longer hide. "I told you I would never leave you, Grace."

He pulled back slightly, his wet hands framing my face, his thumb wiping rain and tears from my eyes.

"Lorenzo Moretti will never threaten this house again," Dominic whispered, his dark eyes searching mine. "His docks are gone. His men have surrendered. The city knows who rules Chicago."

He leaned down, pressing his lips against mine.

The kiss was hot, fierce, and possessive—tasting of rain, iron, and an absolute, unshakeable devotion that shattered every fear I had ever carried.

I kissed him back, wrapping my fingers in his wet hair, giving him everything I had held back for three long weeks.

When he finally pulled away, his breath coming in hot gasps against my mouth, he rested his forehead against mine.