The heavy oak doors of Adrian Cross’s Lincoln Park ballroom groaned as they slammed open, the resonant echo cutting through the string quartet’s performance like a physical blow. Conversations died mid-sentence.

The music didn't resume; it shattered. Adrian didn't hesitate. He slid a hand around my waist, his touch deliberate and mocking as he pulled me into the rhythm of a slow, predatory waltz. Across the floor, Dominic stood motionless, his silhouette carved against the glittering Chicago skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked like a statue cast in vengeance.

“You have a lot of nerve, Claire Russo,” Adrian murmured, spinning me smoothly past a cluster of terrified city councilmen. “Walking into a room full of men who would love nothing more than to skin my husband—er, your husband—alive, wearing a dress that screams ‘revenge.’”

“My husband told me I looked dangerous in this dress,” I replied smoothly, keeping my eyes fixed on Adrian’s lapel. “I figured it was time to live up to the description.”

“And what’s the endgame here?” Adrian’s gaze dropped to mine, sharp and analytical. “You think by playing with fire, you’ll burn Dominic? Men like him don’t burn, Claire. They incinerate everything around them to keep themselves warm.”

“Let them try,” I whispered. “I’m done being the collateral damage in a war I didn't start.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dominic move. He didn't storm the dance floor. He didn't draw a gun. He walked slowly toward the bar, ordered a glass of neat scotch, and never broke eye contact with me for a single second. The intensity of his stare felt like a physical weight pressing against my spine. He was studying me, dissecting me, trying to find the crack in my armor. He thought I was throwing a tantrum. He didn't realize I was laying down the foundation for a coup.

The song ended, and Adrian dipped me low, his face close to my ear. “Be careful, little bird. The cage door is open, but the hawk is still circling.”

“Let him circle,” I replied, pulling myself upright. “I’ve learned how to hunt in the dark.”

I didn't wait for Adrian to escort me. I turned on my heel, swept past the gawking socialites, and headed straight for the grand marble staircase leading to the upper levels of the mansion. I needed air. I needed distance.

As I pushed open a heavy set of double doors leading to a quiet second-floor balcony overlooking the freezing courtyard below, a shadow detached itself from the stone pillars.

“You think this makes you powerful?”

Dominic’s voice cut through the winter chill before I could even catch my breath. He stepped out from the darkness, his overcoat gone, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, jagged scars that ran along his wrists—reminders of the underworld he had conquered before he turned twenty-five.

“It doesn’t make me powerful,” I said, turning to face him, crossing my arms over the silk of my dress. “It just makes me free. Something you forgot how to be a long time ago.”

Dominic closed the space between us with terrifying speed, trapping me against the cold stone balustrade. His hands gripped the railing on either side of my hips, caging me in. The heat radiating off his body contrasted sharply with the biting wind.

“You are wearing my ring,” he snarled, his face inches from mine. “You bear my name. You walk into a room with the man who tried to put a bullet in my head three months ago? Do you have any idea what kind of target you just painted on your back?”

“Paint?” I laughed, a bitter, breathless sound. “Dominic, you painted it there the day you traded my father’s ledgers for a wife you didn't want. You thought I’d sit in the mansion like a pretty piece of furniture, pouring your coffee and waiting for you to die in a turf war. Well, surprise. I’m done waiting.”

Dominic stared down at me, his chest rising and falling heavily. For a split second, the cold, ruthless mafia boss flickered away, replaced by something raw and unrecognizable.

“I didn't want you dragged into this filth,” he growled, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “My world kills everything it touches. I kept you isolated to keep you alive.”

“No,” I corrected him, placing both hands flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart beneath his shirt. “You kept me isolated because you were afraid that if you actually looked at me, you’d realize I was the only real thing in your empty, bloody life. But you chose your pride instead.”

I pushed against his chest with all my strength. He didn't budge an inch, but his eyes widened slightly at the defiance in my touch.