Behind a locked mahogany door, the most feared man in the city woke with a gun in his hand and found me asleep on his chest.

By November, the crisp autumn air had turned into a biting winter freeze that coated the iron gates of the Hayes estate in a delicate layer of white frost.

My life had transformed beyond recognition. I no longer woke up terrified of rent notices, grocery bills, or my brother's mounting disasters—Liam had been packed off to a legitimate accounting firm in Boston under Victor’s strict, unyielding supervision, where he was currently earning an honest living and keeping his distance from poker tables.

I had a room on the second floor, a desk in the private study, and a drawer full of tailored clothes.

More importantly, I had Victor.

The cold, terrifying mafia boss the city whispered about in hushed tones did not exist behind the heavy mahogany doors of the estate. With me, he was patient, quiet, and fiercely, terrifyingly protective.

It was 11:00 PM on a snowy Tuesday night.

I sat at the mahogany desk in the study, organizing the final asset transfers for the upcoming quarter, while Victor stood by the tall bay window, staring out into the dark, snow-choked gardens with a glass of un-iced bourbon in his hand.

"You're working too late," Victor said without turning around.

"I'm almost finished with the shipping manifests," I replied, not looking up from my laptop. "If I don't clear these before midnight, the port authority will hold the morning containers."

Victor set his glass down on the windowsill with a soft clack. He crossed the room in three long strides, reached over my shoulder, and firmly closed the laptop screen.

"The port authority will wait," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right against my ear.

I looked up, tilting my head back to meet his intense, amber gaze. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

"You're impossible," I whispered, a small, helpless smile touching my lips.

"I'm pragmatic," Victor corrected, reaching down to gently cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "You've been hunched over that desk for six hours, Clara. You need to sleep."

"And if I tell you I'm not tired?"

Victor leaned down, his lips hovering a millimeter from mine, the scent of cedarwood and bourbon wrapping around me like a warm blanket.

"Then I'll just have to find another way to keep you occupied."

Before I could answer, the heavy brass latch of the study door clicked.

We both froze.

Paul stood in the threshold, his face pale, breathing heavily through his nose, holding an encrypted burner phone in his right hand.

"Boss," Paul gasped, his eyes darting to me before locking onto Victor. "We've got a situation down at the Manhattan docks. A rival crew from the Genovese family just torched one of our primary container sheds. And they left a message."

The temperature in the private study seemed to drop twenty degrees.

The playful, intimate warmth between us vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced instantly by the cold, razor-sharp focus of an underground empire preparing for war.

Victor slowly pulled his hand away from my face, straightening up to his full height. His amber eyes hardened into molten gold, stripped of every ounce of mercy.

"Get the cars ready, Paul," Victor commanded, his voice ringing through the walnut panels like an iron bell.