The rain in Chicago had a way of turning concrete to lead, hammering against the windows of Sarah Bennett’s cramped, second-floor apartment on Halsted Street.

The silence lasted for what felt like an eternity before the heavy steel door of the vault clicked, hissed, and slowly swung open.

Light flooded the interior.

Julian stood in the doorway. His white shirt was stained with dark blood across his left shoulder, his hair was disheveled, and there was a deep graze along his jawline, but his eyes were bright, fierce, and entirely victorious.

"It's over," Julian said, his voice raspy as he extended a hand toward her.

Sarah didn't just take his hand—she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his chest, sobbing as the adrenaline finally crashed out of her system. Julian wrapped his arms around her tightly, wincing slightly from his shoulder wound, burying his face in her hair.

"I told you," Julian whispered against her ear. "Nobody touches what’s mine."

Six months later, the headlines in the Chicago Tribune read: SHIPPING MAGNATE JULIAN MORETTI ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT FROM SYNDICATE; WEDS FORMER ACCOUNTANT IN PRIVATE GULF COAST CEREMONY.

The wedding was small, elegant, and held on a private estate overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic. There were no mobsters, no thugs, and no armed guards—only Marco holding a sleeping Leo, four-year-old Lily running across the sand with a flower basket, and two people who had found salvation in the most unlikely place on earth.