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.

Three months later, the Hayes Estate looked entirely different.

The cold, intimidating fortress of stone and iron had been softened—just a fraction—by fresh flowers, warm lighting, and a staff that respected me not out of fear, but out of genuine loyalty. I no longer wore an oversized maid’s uniform. Instead, I stood beside Victor in custom designer evening wear, running the day-to-day operations of the syndicate’s legitimate business fronts—orphanages, community centers, and financial investments across the Midwest.

Victor had transformed from a feared mob boss into a formidable corporate titan, cleaning up the syndicate's violent underworld image while maintaining absolute control over the city.

And yet, the ghosts of the past never truly stay buried.

It was late evening when Paul rushed into the private study, holding an encrypted tablet with a grim expression on his face.

"Boss. We have a confirmed sighting. Salvatore’s remaining loyalists didn't flee to New York. They’ve regrouped. And they have a target."

Victor didn't look up from his desk, where he was signing a stack of acquisition papers. His pen didn't even stutter. "Whose target?"

"Ours," Paul said grimly. "Specifically... Elena."

My breath caught in my throat. I lowered the tablet I was reading, looking up at Victor.

Victor slowly set his pen down. He stood up with terrifying, deliberate slowness, the air in the room instantly dropping into sub-zero temperatures. The shadow that crossed his face was the same dark, lethal expression I had seen the night he woke up with a gun in his hand.

"Where are they?" Victor asked, his voice dead calm, which made it ten times more terrifying.

"Warehouse 4 down by the docks," Paul replied. "They’re setting a trap. They want to draw you out."

Victor walked around the desk, stopping right in front of me. He reached out, taking my hands in his—hands that were now smooth, strong, and unblemished by chemical burns.

"Stay here," Victor commanded softly, his thumb caressing my knuckles.

"No," I said, meeting his dark eyes with absolute, unyielding resolve. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the silver-plated pistol he had given me months ago, clicking off the safety with a crisp, echoing snap. "I’m not the maid you saved anymore, Victor. I'm your partner. We finish this together."