Twelve years after his wife died, one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses had refused to let another woman touch him, until I tripped while serving his dinner and fell against his chest. I expected Victor Morgan to have me fired, but instead he wrapped my bleeding hand in his dead wife’s handkerchief and whispered, “You’re the first person to touch me in twelve years,” leaving me wondering what kind of man was really hiding behind those cold gray eyes.

The estate in Lake Forest did not look like a home; it looked like an iron fortress built to withstand a siege.

High stone walls topped with security cameras and iron pikes surrounded twenty acres of dense, dark pine forest. Heavy wrought-iron gates slid open electronically as the armored Mercedes pulled up, closing instantly behind us with a loud, metallic slam.

The house itself was a massive, Tudor-style stone manor that sat high on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. In the blackness of the night, the lake roared below us like an angry monster, waves crashing violent against the sharp rocks at the base of the cliff.

Four heavily armed men in dark tactical gear stood waiting in the cobblestone courtyard as Thomas brought the car to a halt.

“Sir,” the head security guard said, opening Victor’s door. “We heard about the Wabash incident. The perimeter is fully locked down. No one enters without level-one clearance.”

“Good,” Victor said, stepping out of the car and turning to offer his hand to me. “Double the night guards on the south gate. Have Marcus check the pub cameras and send the footage to my private server within the hour.”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan.”

I stepped out onto the cold stone, holding my small tote bag tightly against my ribs. My body was still shaking from the adrenaline spike of the shooting, my hands cold as ice.

Victor reached out, taking my small hand in his. His grip was steady, warm, and absolute.

“Come inside,” he murmured gently, his voice softening the moment he addressed me. “It’s warm.”

He led me through grand, arched double doors made of heavy, solid oak into a massive grand hall. High ceilings with dark timber beams stretched overhead, a massive stone fireplace crackled with roaring birch logs, and thick oriental rugs covered the polished dark-wood floors.

It was breathtakingly beautiful, but it felt entirely hollow. It was a palace built for a king who lived alone in the dark.

“Sit by the fire,” Victor instructed, guiding me toward a long leather sofa near the hearth. He stepped over to a mahogany bar in the corner, poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler, and walked back to hand it to me.

“Drink this,” he said softly. “It will stop the shaking.”

I took the glass with both trembling hands, taking a small sip. The liquid burned down my throat, spreading a sudden, welcome wave of heat through my chest.

Victor sat down beside me on the leather sofa. He pulled off his dark suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch, unbuttoning his vest and loosening his tie. Without the formal suit structuring his frame, he looked tired—deeply, profoundly tired—the lines around his eyes etched deep with years of stress and solitary endurance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring into the roaring fire. “I brought you into my darkness, Aaliyah. I should have stayed away from you. I should have stayed at Table Nine and let you be.”

I set the whiskey glass down on the stone hearth. I turned on the sofa, pulling my knees up, looking directly into his exhausted face.

“They were shooting at you, Victor,” I said quietly. “Not me.”

“It doesn't matter!” he snapped, his voice rough with emotion. “If a bullet had been two inches to the left, you would be lying on Wabash Avenue right now! Because you were standing near a man who carries a target on his back!”

He stood up abruptly, pacing toward the fireplace, his broad back turned to me.

“I told myself I could control it,” he rasped, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “I told myself I was just enjoying a cup of soup and a conversation with a sweet, hardworking girl. But the truth is... I was being selfish. I wanted to feel human again. I wanted your warmth. And I almost got you killed for it.”

I stood up from the sofa.

I walked slowly across the Persian rug until I was standing right behind his broad, towering frame. I raised my hands, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then laid both palms flat against his back, right between his shoulder blades.

Victor froze.

“Listen to me, Victor Morgan,” I said softly, pressing my forehead against his soft cotton shirt. “You didn't force me to sit at your table. You didn't force me to talk to you. I chose to stay. I chose to hand you that handkerchief. I chose to give you my hand.”

I felt the deep, shuddering breath he took, his broad back expanding against my palms.

“I’m not afraid of your life,” I whispered, moving around to stand in front of him, reaching up to gently place my hand against his cheek. “I’m only afraid of you hiding behind those cold stone walls again.”

Victor stared down at me, his gray eyes filling with an emotion so powerful, so raw, and so completely unshielded that it took my breath away.

Slowly, carefully, as if he were touching something made of fragile glass, he lifted his large hands and cupped my face. His thumbs gently brushed across my cheekbones, his calloused skin warm against my cold face.

“Aaliyah,” he breathed, his voice dropping into a thick, desperate whisper. “I haven't loved a woman in twelve years. I thought my heart was dead and buried in the ground with Eleanor.”