Vanessa Bellini stood frozen two feet from the bed, her diamond-encrusted fingers twitching at her sides. The pristine ivory coat she wore looked suddenly absurd against the stark, violent reality of Dominic Moretti waking from the dead. Her sleek, dark hair was pinned back with severe perfection, mirroring the cold calculations happening behind her amber eyes.

“You can't do this to me! Do you know who my father is?! I’m wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding gown!” Vanessa shrieked, kicking her high heels against the elevator wall as the doors slid shut.

Grace watched her go with a quiet, detached expression. The woman who had looked down on her with such vicious, icy contempt just hours ago was now nothing more than a footnote in a collapsing dynasty.

Arthur Bellini was hauled to his feet by two federal marshals, his expensive suit wrinkled and stained with soot from the harbor view. As they dragged him past Dominic, Arthur spat a glob of blood onto the Persian rug.

“You won, Moretti,” Arthur rasped, his eyes burning with helpless hatred. “You took my empire. But you’ll never be clean. Your hands are just as bloody as mine.”

“At least I know whose blood is on them,” Dominic replied flatly.

With a final shove, the agents hauled Arthur away, leaving the penthouse quiet once more except for the crackle of the fireplace and the distant wail of police sirens echoing up from the street below.

Dominic let out a long, shuddering breath. The adrenaline that had sustained him through the siege of the hospital and the confrontation in the penthouse finally evaporated, leaving his body completely hollowed out.

His knees buckled.

“Dominic!” Grace dropped Leo’s hand and rushed forward, catching Dominic’s heavy frame just before he hit the marble floor.

She eased him down against the base of the stone fireplace. Blood was once again soaking rapidly through the makeshift bandages wrapped around his chest, and his skin had turned an alarming shade of gray.

“Leo, stay right there,” Grace instructed quickly, pulling a clean white handkerchief from her pocket and pressing it firmly against Dominic’s bleeding wound to stem the flow. She looked up at Detective Vance, who was lingering near the doorway. “Detective, call an ambulance! His sutures have completely ruptured!”

Vance pulled out his radio, barking orders into the device.

Dominic’s eyelids fluttered heavily. He reached up with a weak, trembling hand, his fingers brushing against Grace’s cheek, leaving a faint smear of soot and blood on her skin.

“You... you didn't run,” Dominic whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

“I told you, I’m a nurse. I finish my shifts,” Grace said softly, her thumb gently wiping a smudge of dirt from his temple. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but this time, it had nothing to do with fear.

Dominic let out a faint, exhausted smile. “Not a nurse anymore, Grace. Not in my world.”

Before she could answer, the heavy footsteps of paramedics echoed from the elevator foyer, rushing into the penthouse with a stretcher and medical gear.

As they loaded Dominic onto the gurney and wheeled him rapidly toward the waiting airlift chopper on the penthouse helipad, Grace stood frozen for a second, holding little Leo's hand.

The boy looked up at her, his dark eyes wide and serious.

“Are we going with him?” Leo asked.

Grace looked down at the little boy, then turned her gaze toward the helipad where the blades were kicking up a furious gale of wind, carrying the man who owned half the city—and had just surrendered his soul to her.