The silence in the penthouse shattered the second Sloan whispered those words. Before I could demand an explanation, the low, rhythmic thrum of a helicopter blade vibrated through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the master bedroom.

Sunrise broke over Manhattan, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and gold.

We returned to the penthouse to find Willa sleeping peacefully in her bassinet, completely unaware of the war that had raged over her tiny head. Mateo and his cleanup crew had worked miracles; the shattered glass on the terrace was replaced with reinforced temporary plating, and every trace of blood had vanished.

Sloan sat on the edge of the master bed, staring blankly at her hands. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind the crushing exhaustion of a new mother who had just survived a cartel shootout.

I walked in with two cups of black coffee, setting one on the nightstand beside her.

“You should sleep,” I said softly.

“I close my eyes and I see those men in the warehouse,” she whispered, not looking up. “I see Willa in their hands.”

I sat beside her on the mattress, the springs creaking softly. “They’re dead, Sloan. Every last one of them who knew about her is at the bottom of the river or in a pine box. Our daughter is untouchable now.”

She turned her green eyes to mine, filled with a complex mix of resentment, exhaustion, and lingering passion. “You enjoy this, don’t you? The violence. The power.”

I didn't flinch from the truth. “It’s the only language my world understands. It’s why I walked away from you six months ago—because I thought keeping you wrapped up in my darkness would destroy you.”

“And instead, you left me alone to face it all by myself,” she retorted, her voice cracking with sudden, raw emotion. “You think being a Moretti means bearing every burden alone. But you didn't protect me, Vincent. You just abandoned me.”

Her words hit harder than any bullet ever could.

“I know,” I said quietly. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it—if you’ll let me.”

Sloan looked away, staring at the bassinet where Willa let out a soft, sleepy sigh.

“We aren't magically married again just because you played the hero, Vincent,” she said evenly. “The divorce is final. The paperwork is signed.”

“Then we’ll get remarried,” I replied without missing a beat.

She let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Probably. But I’m not losing my family twice.”

Before she could argue, a sharp knock at the door interrupted us. Mateo walked into the room, holding an encrypted tablet.

“Boss, you need to see this. The SEC just flagged a massive, unauthorized asset transfer originating from Geneva. Someone is trying to liquidate the remaining Moretti-Rostov trust accounts.”

I frowned, standing up immediately. “Who?”

“Not the Russians,” Mateo said grimly. “It’s coming from an internal corporate account registered to Moretti Holdings. Specifically... your chief financial officer, Julian.”

My blood turned to ice. Julian had been my right-hand man in the corporate world for a decade.

“Where is he?”