Mafia Boss Never Loved Anyone Until a Broke Designer Jammed Her Sneaker Into His Private Elevator There was a special kind of silence that followed Victor Gallow. It emptied crowded restaurants before he reached his table. It made armed men lower their voices. It turned confident executives into stammering children when he entered a conference room.

The first six months of marriage to the most dangerous man in Chicago had been surprisingly peaceful. Harper had seamlessly transitioned from a struggling designer to the creative visionary of the Gallow Empire. She walked through the marble corridors of the forty-second floor with absolute confidence. Men who used to carry suppressed weapons now carried her portfolio drafts. But peace in Victor’s world was always a temporary illusion. It started on a rainy Tuesday in early October. Harper was sitting in her spacious corner office, reviewing the launch materials for a new luxury hotel acquisition. The heavy oak door opened without a knock. Victor walked in, his charcoal suit immaculate, but his jaw was clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. He didn't say a word. He simply walked behind her leather chair, leaned down, and pressed his face into the crook of her neck. Harper immediately felt the rigid tension humming through his massive frame. She dropped her stylus and covered his hands with hers. “Who do we need to bury?” she asked softly, perfectly serious. Victor let out a rough, exhausted exhale, his breath warm against her skin. “Marcus Vance was released from federal prison this morning,” Victor murmured. Harper felt her own heart skip a painful beat. Marcus Vance was the man who had taught Victor everything he knew about the underworld. He was the old king, the man Victor had violently dethroned a decade ago to build his own empire. “I thought he was serving a life sentence,” Harper whispered, turning her chair to look up at her husband’s stormy eyes. “He was,” Victor said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly octave. “But witnesses disappear, evidence gets corrupted, and judges get bought.” He stepped back, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gray skyline. “He isn't coming back to retire, Harper.” “He is coming back to reclaim the city.” Harper stood up and walked over to him, wrapping her arms securely around his waist. “We own the city now, Victor,” she reminded him, resting her cheek against his chest. “He’s a ghost.” Victor wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her entirely too tight. “Ghosts don't bleed, Harper,” Victor said, his eyes scanning the streets far below. “But they know exactly how to make the living bleed.” He turned her gently, forcing her to meet his intense, unyielding gaze. “Arthur is doubling your security detail.” “You do not leave this building unless I am with you.” “Do you understand me?” Harper looked at the absolute terror masked behind his commanding tone. He wasn't afraid of Marcus Vance. He was terrified of losing her. “I understand,” she promised, rising onto her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his lips. But as she looked out the window over his shoulder, a cold chill ran down her spine. Down on the street level, a sleek silver town car was parked illegally in front of the building. A man in a tan trench coat was standing beside it, staring directly up at the forty-second floor. Even from this distance, Harper could feel the malice radiating from him. The ghost was already here.