The silence in Bellavita wasn't the quiet of a resting room; it was the suffocating stillness of a loaded gun.

The gunshot echoed through the small hospital room like a thunderclap.

Dominic’s bullet caught Marcone’s enforcer square in the chest, spinning him backward into the drywall.

In the exact same microsecond, Viktor and the other guards opened fire. A hail of lead tore across the room. Marcone screamed, diving behind the overturned hospital bed, dragging my mother with him as human shield.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Dominic roared, his arm shooting out to stop his men.

The smoke cleared, smelling of copper and sulfur.

Marcone was pinned behind the bed, bleeding heavily from a wound in his shoulder, holding a trembling hand to his bleeding arm. My mother was huddled against the baseboard, shaking violently but unharmed.

“You... insane bastard,” Marcone gasped, coughing up blood.

Dominic stepped over the body of the enforcer, his boots crunching on glass, and walked right up to the overturned bed. He didn't hesitate. He kicked the bed aside with brutal force, sending it skittering across the tile.

Before Marcone could raise his pistol, Dominic’s boot came down hard on his wrist, sending Marcone’s gun clattering across the floor.

Dominic crouched down, grabbed Marcone by the lapels of his blood-stained white suit, and hauled him up until their faces were inches apart.

“You stepped onto my property. You threatened my family. And you touched the woman who saved my son,” Dominic whispered, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. “The Outfit is dead, Sal. Starting tonight, Chicago belongs to me alone.”

Two sharp cracks echoed outside the window as police sirens—real police, not bought-off city cops—finally wailed in the distance.

Viktor stepped forward, handing Dominic a clean handkerchief. “The cleanup crew is already downstairs, boss. The authorities will rule this a failed syndicate turf war. No trace of us.”

Dominic wiped his hands, stood up slowly, and walked over to my mother, offering her a steady, gentle hand.

“Mrs. Vance, I apologize for the noise,” Dominic said smoothly, his terrifying mafia persona vanishing instantly into the polite gentleman. “Let’s get you back to a safer room.”

My mother took his hand, blinking in shock. “Young man... I think I need a very strong drink.”

“Agreed,” Dominic smiled faintly.

He turned his dark, intense eyes toward me as I stood frozen by the doorway, my heart hammering against my ribs. The war was over. The enemy was dismantled. The empire was secure.

Dominic walked across the ruined room, stopping just inches from me. The flashing red emergency lights cast a warm, crimson glow over his face.

“Well, Elena,” Dominic murmured softly, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Still want to quit and go back to waiting tables?”

I looked up at him—at the monster, the savior, the man who had burned down half the city to keep me safe—and realized the truth I had been running from all night.

I wasn't a waitress anymore. And I wasn't running.