88She Vanished Before Their Engagement Dinner, and the Three Words Under His Glass Made the Mafia Boss Forget How to Breathe

By four o'clock in the morning, the rain had stopped over Manhattan.

The top floor of the Carlyle Hotel was quiet, bathed in the soft, warm glow of gold lamps and the faint blue light of the city skyline visible through the grand floor-to-ceiling windows.

Damian had bypassed her apartment. He had bypassed his own house in New Jersey. He had rented the entire penthouse floor of the hotel under a private corporate account, filling the building with twenty of his most trusted men to secure every corridor and stairwell.

In the master bathroom, the large marble tub was filled with steaming water scented with lavender and eucalyptus oil.

Nora sat on the edge of the tub, dressed in a soft white terrycloth robe provided by the hotel. Her hair was clean, wet, and combed back over her shoulders.

Damian sat on a small wooden stool beside her.

He had stripped off his wet tuxedo jacket and tie. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the thick, pale scars on his forearms.

He held a small piece of cotton soaked in antiseptic, gently dabbing at the small cut on her lower lip.

“Does it hurt?” he asked softly.

“A little,” Nora said. She winced slightly as the alcohol stung the cut, but she didn't pull away. She reached out and placed her small, warm hand over his knee. “You’re shaking, Damian.”

Damian stopped.

He looked down at his right hand. The fingers that had held a heavy pistol without a single tremble twenty minutes ago were now visibly quivering as he held the tiny piece of cotton.

He set the cotton down on the marble counter and covered his face with both hands.

He didn't speak. He didn't make a sound. But his broad shoulders heaved once, twice, under the heavy strain of the emotion he had held locked behind iron bars for seven hours.

Nora moved closer. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his head down into her lap, her fingers running gently through his dark, damp hair.

“I’m here,” she whispered into his ear. “Damian, look at me. I’m right here.”

Damian slowly lifted his head. He looked into her green eyes, his own silver gaze wild, raw, and vulnerable in a way no living person had ever seen.

“I almost lost you,” he whispered, the words ragged and torn. “If I had been five minutes later… if I hadn't seen the note…”

“You found me,” she said fiercely. “You knew who I was. You knew how I think. You’re the only man in the world who would have looked at a piece of card stock and known it smelled like raspberry filling.”

She reached down, took his large, scarred hand, and brought it to her lips, pressing a kiss into his palm where the silver whisk charm had drawn blood earlier that night.

“He thought he could take me back into the dark, Damian,” Nora said softly. “But he forgot that I don't live in the dark anymore. I live with you.”

Damian pulled her into his arms, lifting her off the edge of the tub and carrying her into the quiet bedroom.

He laid her gently on the massive king-sized bed, surrounded by crisp white linen sheets. He laid down beside her, not touching her intimately, but simply resting his forehead against hers, his arm wrapped around her waist like a shield that would never be removed.