"She was supposed to be invisible, but after taking a wall of shattered glass meant for Dante Moretti’s son, the most feared man in Chicago looked into her eyes and quietly said, “You’re coming with me.”

The Moretti estate did not look like a house; it looked like a fortress disguised as a European palace. Tucked deep within the heavily guarded woods of Lake Forest, surrounded by ten-foot iron gates, security towers, and patrolling men with submachine guns hidden under their coats, it was a world entirely disconnected from the cold, crumbling apartment I called home.

When the SUV pulled up to the grand front entrance, medical staff in crisp white uniforms were already waiting with a gurney.

"No gurney," Dante barked as he stepped out into the rain, shielding my face with his jacket. "Set up the private surgical suite on the third floor. Dr. Lorenzo, you have five minutes to prep."

The next hour was a blur of bright lights, the sterile smell of antiseptic, and the sharp bite of a local anesthetic entering my lower back. I lay facedown on a leather operating table, my fingers gripping the edges so hard my nails turned white.

"Stay still, cara," a gentle, gravelly voice said. It was Dr. Lorenzo, a silver-haired man who worked exclusively for the family. "The glass came dangerously close to your shoulder blade. I need to pull the pieces out one by one."

I bit my lip, refusing to scream, but a quiet tear slipped down my nose.

Suddenly, a warm, massive hand closed around mine. I looked sideways to see Dante sitting on a low stool right next to the table. He had removed his jacket, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms covered in dark, intricate tattoos—symbols of the Syndicate, old-world Latin phrases, and the Moretti family crest.

"Cry if you need to," Dante said, his voice rough. "Squeeze my hand. Break my fingers if it helps. But do not hold it in."

"Why are you doing this?" I squeezed his hand as a sharp clink echoed in the room—a three-inch shard of crystal dropped into a stainless steel tray. I gasped, digging my nails into his palm. Dante didn't even flinch. "I'm nobody. I'm a waitress who makes twelve dollars an hour."

"You are the woman who didn't hesitate," Dante replied, his eyes fixed on mine. "In my world, everyone hesitates. Everyone calculates the cost. Everyone asks what they stand to gain before they move a finger. You saw my son in danger, and you gave your body as a shield without asking for a single thing in return. That makes you the most valuable person in this city."

"I don't want to be valuable," I whispered, another shard coming out, making my whole body shudder. "I just want to go back to my life."

"That life is gone, Elena," Dante said, his thumb stroking the back of my hand with a rhythm that was surprisingly soothing. "Tomorrow morning, the news will report a gas leak explosion at your apartment building. Your landlord will receive a check for ten years' worth of rent. Your belongings will be packed and brought here. As far as the city of Chicago is concerned, Elena Vance has vanished."

"You... you blew up my apartment?!" I tried to sit up in horror, but Dante’s free hand gently pressed down on my uninjured shoulder, holding me flat.

"I said the news will report a gas leak," he corrected calmly. "No one was hurt. But your identity as a broke, helpless waitress is erased. If my enemies in the Outfit find out that a woman saved my son, they will use you to get to me. They will kidnap you, torture you, and use you as leverage. Out there, you are a target. In here, under my roof, you are untouchable."

Dr. Lorenzo placed the final piece of glass in the tray with a soft metallic ring and began stitching the clean wounds. "All clear, Don Moretti. Twenty-four stitches. She will need bed rest for at least two weeks to avoid tearing the tissue."

"Thank you, Doctor," Dante said. He stood up, picked me up as effortlessly as before, and carried me down the long, carpeted hallway toward a massive suite at the end of the wing.

The room was grander than anything I had ever seen in magazines. A king-sized bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets sat against a wall of dark mahogany. A fireplace crackled warmly in the corner, and wide balcony doors opened to a view of the storm sweeping over the estate's private gardens.

He laid me down gently on my side, pulling a soft cashmere throw over my legs.

"Get some sleep, Elena," Dante said, turning to walk toward the door.

"Dante?" I called out softly, the sedatives the doctor had given me finally starting to make my eyelids heavy.

He paused at the threshold, his tall, imposing silhouette framed by the warm hallway light. "Yes?"

"Are you keeping me here as a reward... or as a prisoner?"