“Sorry I’m Late,” She Whispered—The Mafia Boss Froze When He Saw the Blood Trail Behind Her

Three months later.

The morning sun over the Mississippi River was bright and blindingly clear, casting long golden light across the massive steel girders of Pier 14.

The old, porous concrete pilings had been completely removed under Cersa's personal supervision, replaced by massive, high-density steel-reinforced caissons driven eighty feet into the riverbed.

A hundred workers in yellow hardhats moved across the site, the rhythmic, heavy thud of pile drivers providing a steady, industrial beat that echoed across the water.

Cersa stood on the elevated observation deck, wearing a white hardhat, high-visibility vest, and carrying a set of rolled architectural schematics under her arm.

A sleek black sedan pulled up to the edge of the construction zone below.

Declan Maher stepped out, dressed in a sharp dark blue suit, sunglasses shielding his dark eyes from the river glare. He spoke briefly to the site security guards—who recognized him immediately and stepped back with deep, respectful nods—and walked up the steel stairs to the observation deck.

"You're late, Mr. Maher," Cersa said without turning around, a small smile playing on her lips as she adjusted her safety glasses. "Twelve minutes."

Declan stopped beside her, leaning his arm against the steel railing and looking out over the river.

"Traffic on Canal Street," he said smoothly. "And I had to drop off your sister at her dorm. She asked me if I could talk to the head of campus security about getting her a better parking pass."

"Did you?" Cersa asked, glancing at him sideways.

"I bought the parking lot," Declan said flatly.

Cersa let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You are incorrigible."

"I am a practical man," Declan replied, taking the schematics from under her arm and opening them up against the railing. "Is this the design for the new riverfront park?"

"It is," she said, pointing a slender finger toward the green spaces designated along the water's edge. "Two miles of public access, reinforced retention dikes, and an underground drainage system capable of handling twelve inches of rain an hour."

Declan looked at the bottom corner of the master blueprint.

In the title block, where the lead contracting firm was listed, it did not say City of New Orleans Public Works.

It read: VAN & MAHER INFRASTRUCTURE DEVELOPMENT LLC.

"Our first joint venture," Declan murmured, his dark eyes meeting hers. "Clean money. Public contracts. Legitimate standing."

"Don't get too soft, Maher," Cersa teased gently, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt. "I still need your enforcers to keep the local concrete suppliers from trying to cut corners on the aggregate mixture."

Declan caught her wrist, holding her hand against his chest.

"They won't cut corners," he said, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that always made her skin prickle with heat. "Word has gotten around the state that the lead engineer on this project is married to a man who handles contract disputes with a switchblade."

Cersa's eyes widened slightly. "We're not married."

Declan reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small black leather book, and set it on top of the blue prints.

"I had my legal team draft the partnership charter and the personal agreements yesterday," he said calmly. "It includes a ninety-percent share of the corporate assets transferred to your name, an irrevocable trust for Petra, and a private residence in the Garden District that has three subterranean escape tunnels."

Cersa stared at him, her heart beating violently against her ribs. "Declan..."

"I told you once that assets don't bleed," Declan whispered, stepping closer until his body blocked the river wind, wrapping her in his familiar scent of cedar and fine tobacco. "You were never an asset, Cersa. You were the only thing in this world I ever met that was worth building a life around."

He pulled a simple, exquisite ring from his pocket—a flawless solitaire diamond set in an band of dark, brushed platinum that looked remarkably like structural steel.

"No contracts without blueprints," Declan said softly, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger. "What do you say, Commissioner?"

Cersa looked at the ring, then up at his strong, handsome face—the man who had stood beside her when she was bleeding out on his floor, who had fought a war to keep her safe, and who had rebuilt his entire world just to fit hers.