The cold steel of the Beretta pressing against my spine should have woken me instantly, but deep exhaustion has a way of blurring the line between survival and oblivion. I remained dead to the world, my cheek pillowed against the solid expanse of Victor Hayes’s chest, my breathing slow and even. For five endless seconds, the most dangerous man in Chicago stared down at me, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.

The smoke cleared, but the tension in the estate remained thick enough to cut with a knife. Paul and his remaining detail secured the perimeter, hauling the unconscious intruders out into the freezing Chicago night.

Victor dragged me back into his private study, slamming the mahogany doors shut behind us. He pushed me gently—yet firmly—down onto the leather sofa, the exact same sofa where this madness had all begun twenty-four hours ago.

He dropped to one knee in front of me, snatching the silver pistol out of my trembling hands and tossing it onto the coffee table. Then, he grabbed my wrists, turning my hands over to inspect my fingers.

"Did the recoil hurt you?" he demanded, his voice uncharacteristically frantic.

"I'm fine," I breathed, staring down at him in disbelief. The most feared crime lord in Chicago was kneeling at my feet, checking me for injuries like a panicked parent. "Victor, people are breaking into your house to kill you. Because of your business. Because of... everything."

"This is my life, Elena," Victor said quietly, his thumbs brushing soothing circles against my bruised wrists. "A world of blood, enemies, and power. The moment you pulled that trigger tonight, you stepped out of the shadows of being a maid and straight into the crosshairs of my war."

"I didn't ask for this!"

"No, you didn't," Victor agreed, looking up through his dark lashes, his gaze softening into something devastatingly vulnerable. "You asked to pay off your brother's debt by cleaning toilets. But fate had other plans. And honestly? I'm selfish enough to be glad it did."

My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to look away, to remind myself that he was a dangerous criminal, that men vanished into Lake Michigan for crossing him. But looking into his dark, intense eyes, all I saw was a man who had been utterly alone until I stumbled onto his chest.

"Why do they want you dead, Victor?" I whispered, leaning forward just a fraction.

Victor let out a dark, humorless chuckle. "Because I control the port authority, the shipping lanes, and half the politicians in this city. When you sit at the top of the Chicago underworld, everyone wants your crown."

He stood up, walking over to the fireplace where the orange flames cast dancing lights across his broad shoulders.

"Tomorrow, the syndicate elders are holding a summit," Victor said, his tone turning ice-cold. "They think I'm weak because I took a bullet and spent a night resting. They think I'm distracted."