**For twelve years, no woman had been allowed within arm’s reach of Boston’s most feared mafia boss—until a waitress crashed into him, cut her hand, and made him use the one thing he had protected since his wife died.**

Ten minutes later, Aliyah sat in the back of the armored Escalade as it drove north out of the city, crossing the Tobin Bridge toward the quiet, affluent coastal enclave of Nahant.

She didn't speak. She held her canvas backpack tightly in her lap, her fingers resting against the folded linen handkerchief inside her pocket.

The vehicle turned off the coastal highway, passing through a massive set of wrought-iron security gates set into a high stone wall.

The estate sat on a lonely cliff overlooking the roaring North Atlantic. It was a massive Victorian stone mansion surrounded by pine trees, cold salt wind, and crashing white waves far below.

The Escalade pulled up onto the gravel driveway in front of the grand stone portico.

Nikolai opened her door. "He is in the library, Miss Brooks. First floor on the right."

Aliyah stepped out of the vehicle, the cold ocean wind whipping her auburn hair around her face. She walked up the wide granite steps, pushed open the heavy mahogany front door, and stepped into the foyer.

The interior of the mansion was vast, dark, and utterly silent. High ceilings, dark oak paneling, and floor-to-ceiling windows showing the stormy grey ocean outside. There were no family photographs on the walls, no art, no signs of life—it felt like a monument built out of stone and memory.

She walked down the long hallway and pushed open the heavy double doors of the library.

A massive stone fireplace crackled softly on the far wall, casting a warm, golden orange light across dark leather armchairs and endless rows of books.

Standing near the tall bay window, staring out at the sea, was Victor.

He had removed his suit jacket, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a glass of amber whiskey held loosely in his right hand.

He turned slowly as her footsteps crossed the rug.

His gray eyes swept over her—checking her face, her shoulders, her hands—ensuring she was unharmed.

"He didn't hurt you," Victor said softly.

It wasn't a question. It was a confirmation.

"Nikolai stopped him," Aliyah replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline still humming through her veins. "Your man saved my life."

Victor took a slow drink of his whiskey, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a heavy sigh. "I brought this to your door, Aliyah. For twelve years, I kept myself isolated so that no innocent person would ever become collateral damage in my war. And in one night of weakness, I put a target on your back."

Aliyah walked across the library, stopping five feet away from him near the fireplace.

"It wasn't a weakness, Victor," she said softly.

Victor let out a dry, bitter laugh. "A man who gives away his dead wife's memory to a stranger is weak."

Aliyah reached into her pocket.