THE MAFIA BOSS THOUGHT NO ONE CARED — UNTIL A WOMAN ARRIVED WITH TWO CHILDREN

For three days, the estate felt like a different world.

The oppressive silence that had hung over the halls for eighteen months was broken by the sound of small feet running down the corridors and Poppy’s infectious giggles echoing through the sunlit library. Declan had instructed the kitchen staff to prepare meals that my daughters liked—pancakes shaped like bear ears for breakfast, macaroni and cheese made with four kinds of cheese for dinner.

At night, after the girls were asleep in their bright, newly decorated bedrooms on the second floor, Declan and I sat together in the library.

He was working longer hours now, his lap covered in leather-bound ledgers and encrypted tablet computers. The paralysis in his legs remained, but the dead, hopeless look in his eyes had vanished entirely. He moved through his work with a fierce, terrifying intelligence, rebuilding the connections that had frayed during his six months of isolation.

"You're preparing for a war," I said one night, sitting on the leather ottoman beside his chair, holding a mug of tea he had insisted the staff brew for me.

Declan looked up from his tablet, his gray eyes reflecting the warm orange light of the fireplace. He reached down, his fingers playing gently with the ends of my brown hair.

"Not a war, Elena," he murmured. "A negotiation. But in my line of work, the difference between the two is very thin."

"Fiona said the men from Detroit are coming," I said softly, looking into his eyes. "She said they think you're weak."

Declan let out a low, dark chuckle, his hand moving down to cup my cheek. His thumb stroked my skin, sending a wave of warmth straight down my spine. "Detroit thinks because I sit in this chair, my brain has stopped working. They think because I lost the use of my legs, I lost my teeth."

He leaned forward, his face inches from mine. The scent of cedar, expensive tobacco, and clean rain wrapped around me.

"Do you think I'm weak, Elena?" he whispered.

"No," I answered immediately, my voice steady, my eyes locked on his. "I think you're the strongest man I've ever known. Toby was gentle, and he died trying to save someone. You... you're a shield, Declan. You make me feel like nothing in this world can ever hurt my girls again."

Declan went still, his expression softening into something raw and defenseless. He closed the distance between us, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that was slow, deep, and filled with a quiet, desperate gratitude. I leaned into him, my arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, feeling the thick, powerful muscles of his back tense under my touch.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breath warm against my lips.

"Tomorrow at noon," he murmured, "the heads of the Detroit Syndicate will be here. I want you and the girls to stay on the third floor with Liam's best men."

"Declan—"