I thought giving my husband’s mistress his family ring meant I was finally free—until the man waiting outside told me I had just signed my own death warrant.

The service corridors beneath the Union League led into the forgotten subterranean freight tunnels of Chicago. But Roman had prepared an escape route—a private armored boat waiting at the Chicago River locks to take him to the South Port docks.

While Dante’s tactical teams mobilized to intercept Roman at the docks, Dante pulled me into his private staging suite on the penthouse floor of the Vale high-rise to prepare for the final assault.

The city below us was engulfed in a ferocious autumn thunderstorm. Thunder rattled the thick glass, casting jagged shadows across the dimly lit room.

I sat on the edge of the leather sofa, cleaning the slide of my weapon, but my hands were trembling. Not with fear. With the crashing realization that four years of torment, grief, and survival were finally reaching their violent conclusion.

A warm glass of water was placed gently into my hands.

Dante sat down beside me. He didn't say a word at first. He just sat there, his shoulder pressed against mine, a solid, immovable anchor in the middle of my hurricane.

"You don't have to pull the trigger tonight, Evelyn," Dante said softly, his voice devoid of the lethal coldness he showed the world. "If you want me to end him, I’ll do it. You don't have to carry his blood on your hands."

I looked at him. In the dim light of the storm, Dante Vale didn't look like the ruthless underworld prince everyone feared. He looked like a man who had carried the burden of protecting a broken world for far too long.

"My father carried blood," I said quietly. "You carry blood. Roman murdered my father and thought I was too weak, too broken to fight back. If I let you do it for me, part of me will always remain his victim."

Dante reached up, his large, rough hand gently cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed over the high curve of my cheekbone, his touch so tender it made my breath hitch.

"You were never a victim, Evelyn," he whispered, his gray eyes searching mine with raw, undisguised devotion. "For four years, I watched you walk into rooms full of wolves, holding your head high, protecting your father's memory with nothing but pure dignity. Every night I didn't tear Roman apart with my bare hands was a torture I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Dante..."

"I made a promise to your father," Dante murmured, leaning in until his lips were inches from mine, his warm breath mingling with mine in the darkness. "He asked me to protect you. But he didn't know that the first time I saw you at eighteen, standing beneath the lights at the symphony... I had already given you my life."

He didn't force the kiss. He waited, giving me the sovereign choice he had honored since the beginning.

I closed the distance.

The kiss was fierce, desperate, and intoxicating. It tasted of rain, bourbon, and liberation. Four years of starvation, four years of cold isolation melted away beneath the fire of a man who didn't want to own me—who wanted to stand beside me as an equal.

When we finally broke apart, our foreheads resting together, Dante’s hands were tangled in my dark hair.

"Let's finish this," I whispered against his lips.