The glass paperweight had missed Luke’s head by an inch, shattering against the mahogany bookshelf and raining razor-sharp crystal shards across the Persian rug. I sat in my custom, leather-upholstered titanium wheelchair, chest heaving, the phantom pain in my shins flaring like a blowtorch.

Midnight on our one-year anniversary found us not at a glittering gala, but sitting quietly on the reinforced glass balcony of the master wing, watching the Chicago skyline glitter like a field of scattered diamonds across the dark waters of Lake Michigan.

The estate was quiet. The ghosts of the sniper’s bullet, the syndicate wars, and the cold, lonely wheelchair were finally laid to rest.

I stood leaning against the glass railing, my legs strong beneath me, feeling the cool night breeze sweep off the lake.

Emma sat on the lounge chair, sipping a glass of wine, watching me with a quiet, knowing smirk. "You know, for a terrifying Chicago kingpin, you turned out to be a remarkably soft touch."

"Only for the right employee," I replied, walking over and kneeling down beside her chair, resting my hands on her knees.

She looked down at me, her amber eyes shining in the moonlight. "And what's our next move, Mr. Vance? The empire is secure, the foundation is running, and you can walk just fine."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out a small, heavy velvet box, and placed it gently in her lap.

She blinked, opening it to reveal not a diamond ring, but a heavy, brass-engraved key—the master key to the city’s historic Wrigley Building penthouse, which I had quietly acquired that morning.

"My next move," I whispered, looking up into her eyes with a dangerous, loving smile, "is taking you completely out of this fortress and showing you the city from the very top."