The first time I made Chicago’s most feared crime boss laugh, I was sitting in his chair, wearing his glasses, and accusing a twelve-pound puppy of destroying confidential evidence. Nobody in Adrian Moretti’s mansion had heard him laugh in nine years—and when that sound finally broke through the room, every armed man near the door stared at me like I had just done something more dangerous than trespassing.

The gala ended at midnight, but the tension in the mansion lingered like thick smoke.

At 0200, a sudden, explosive crash echoed through the east wing of the estate.

I woke up instantly, my heart pounding against my ribs. High-pitched alarm sirens began to wail throughout the house, red emergency lights flashing in the hallways.

I threw on my robe, stepping out into the basement corridor. Security guards were sprinting past, weapons drawn, shouted commands echoing down the stairwells.

"Elena! Stay in your room!" Martha screamed from down the hall, rushing toward the panic shelter.

Instead of hiding, my mind went straight to Winston, who was kept in the small utility room near the ground-floor pantry.

I ran up the back stairwell, the cold air hitting my face as I reached the main kitchen corridor.

A heavy glass window overlooking the courtyard had been blown inward, shards of safety glass covering the floor. The heavy wooden door to the garden was standing wide open, swinging violently in the freezing wind.

"Winston!" I called out, ducking low behind the kitchen island.

A soft whimper came from beneath the stainless steel prep table. I crawled forward, pulling the shivering puppy into my arms, wrapping him tightly inside my flannel robe.

Suddenly, footsteps crunched against the shattered glass outside the doorway.

A man in a dark tactical suit stepped into the kitchen, a suppressed pistol held in his right hand. He was wearing a dark mask, his eyes searching the room for targets.

A Rossi hit squad.

My breath hitched in my throat. I squeezed Winston close, backing up against the cabinets, trying not to make a sound.

The gunman turned his head toward my corner, raising his weapon.

THUD.

A heavy silencer shot echoed through the kitchen, but it wasn't the intruder's gun that had fired.

The gunman froze, a small red hole appearing in the center of his chest before he collapsed forward onto the tiled floor.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the falling snow outside, was Adrian.

He was wearing a dark shirt and trousers, a heavy black pistol held steadily in his hand. His face was a mask of absolute, lethal precision—the true face of the man who ruled Chicago’s underground.

He swept the room, his eyes instantly locking onto me huddled in the corner with the dog.

The coldness in his eyes shattered in an instant.

He dropped his gun onto the counter, sprinting across the kitchen floor, dropping to his knees beside me. He pulled me violently into his arms, crushing me against his chest so tightly I could hear the rapid, furious beat of his heart.

"Elena... my God, Elena," he choked out, his hands buried in my hair, his body trembling with a terror I had never seen in him before. "Are you hit? Look at me... are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I wept, clinging to his shirt, the smell of gunpowder and cold rain filling my senses. "I'm okay... I have Winston..."

Adrian pulled back slightly, his large hands framing my face, his thumb wiping away a tear on my cheek. His grey eyes were wild, filled with a raw, agonizing emotion that shattered every wall he had built for nine years.

"If anything happened to you..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "If I lost you..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He leaned down and pressed his lips against mine.

The kiss was desperate, fierce, and deep—a explosion of nine years of solitude, fear, and unexpressed longing pouring into a single moment. I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him back with everything I had, letting the warmth of his body push away the freezing horror of the night.