The Mafia Boss Saw the Danger First—Then He Told the Waitress, “Stay Close and Call Me Your Husband.”

The medical wing of Blackwood Manor became a triage unit for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Ambrose required twenty-two stitches along his ribs to close the shrapnel wound, but the bullet had missed his internal organs. By noon the following day, against Dr. Sterling’s furious protests, Ambrose was sitting up in his bed in the master suite, propped against velvet pillows, a laptop open on his knees.

Rosalind sat beside him, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater belonging to him. She held a cup of hot tea between her hands, watching the sunlight dance across the calm blue waters of the Atlantic outside the tall windows.

The bronze seal from the workshop sat safely on the bedside table beside the decoded ledger.

“You haven’t asked me,” Ambrose said quietly, breaking the peaceful silence.

Rosalind turned her head. “Asked you what?”

“Why the wedding ring fit your finger so perfectly at Dover’s Diner.”

Rosalind’s fingers tightened around the ceramic mug. She looked down at the gold band on her left hand. It had fit as though it had been molded for her skin.

“I assumed you had your men bribe the owner of the diner to measure my glove size,” she said.

Ambrose closed the laptop and set it aside. He reached across the sheets, taking her hand in his. His thumb stroked the smooth gold band.

“Six years ago,” Ambrose began, his voice soft, filled with a quiet reverence she had never heard before, “I returned to Providence for forty-eight hours after my father fell ill. I went to your father’s workshop to inspect the ledger’s binding. You were eighteen. You were sitting on a wooden stool in the back corner, sewing an illuminated Italian missal with gold thread. You had a smudge of ink on your left jawline, and you were humming a melody by Chopin.”

Rosalind stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. “I don't remember you.”

“You didn't see me,” Ambrose said, his grey eyes locked onto hers with devastating intensity. “Your father made me wait in the outer hallway. But Warren saw me watching you. Before I left, your father looked me in the eye and said, *‘That girl has the soul of an artist and the spine of an emperor, Ambrose. If you ever bring your world to her door, you better be ready to lay that world at her feet.’*”

Ambrose pulled her closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Two days later, Warren died in the fire. By the time I could break away from the war in Europe to return, you had vanished into the foster system, working double shifts to pay Miles’s bills. I had that ring forged four years ago, Rosalind. I kept it in my breast pocket every single day, waiting until I had cleared enough traitors from the council to come to you not as a danger, but as a sanctuary.”

Tears welled in Rosalind’s eyes. The six years of cold, bitter loneliness, the endless nights of wondering why the universe had abandoned her family, melted away beneath the warmth of his confession.

“You waited four years?” she whispered.

“I would have waited a lifetime,” Ambrose said. “But Vane discovered your connection to the ledger earlier than I anticipated. I had to move before he did.”

Rosalind leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat. “You should have told me.”

“I was terrified that if I told you the truth, you would see only the blood on my hands,” he murmured, wrapping his strong arms around her, kissing the crown of her head. “I didn't want to buy your love with protection.”

“You didn't buy it,” Rosalind said, lifting her face to look into his eyes. “You earned it when you flew into that storm for my brother.”

Ambrose smiled—a genuine, radiant smile that stripped away years of cynicism from his handsome face. He cupped her cheeks, pulling her down into a deep, passionate kiss that sealed the unwritten vows between them.

The moment of peace was shattered by the sharp ringing of the red secure telephone on the nightstand.

Ambrose answered it, his expression instantly hardening. “Speak.”

Dr. Sterling’s frantic voice cut through the speaker so loudly Rosalind could hear every word:

*“Ambrose! Miles is gone!”*

Rosalind bolted upright, the tea mug slipping from her hands and shattering across the floor.

“What did you say?!” Ambrose roared into the receiver.

*“A tactical medical team with forged state transfer orders arrived five minutes ago,”* Sterling sobbed in panic. *“They showed federal badges, disabled the east wing guards with aerosol neuro-toxins, and loaded Miles into an armored ambulance! They left a message for Donna Rosalind!”*

Ambrose slammed the phone down. He ripped the IV line from his arm, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed despite the agony in his stitched ribs.

“Ambrose!” Rosalind cried out, her world spinning into a nightmare. “Miles! They have Miles!”

Thomas burst into the bedroom, holding an encrypted satellite phone that was buzzing with a video call request.

Ambrose snatched the phone, hitting the connect button and holding the screen so Rosalind could see.

The video flickered to life.

Salvatore Vane sat inside a dimly lit stone vault. Behind him, strapped to a medical gurney, was Miles Halloway. A thick leather strap was buckled across Miles’s chest, and a mercenary stood behind the gurney with a suppressed pistol pressed against the boy’s temple.

“Good morning, Ambrose. Donna Rosalind,” Salvatore Vane sneered through the speaker. His face was bruised, but his eyes were filled with the manic triumph of a cornered beast. “It seems your little raid on the docks cost me my son. Julian is dead under a pile of rubble.”

“Let my brother go, Salvatore!” Rosalind screamed, stepping in front of the camera, her nails digging into Ambrose’s arm. “He has nothing to do with this!”

“He has everything to do with this, girl!” Vane barked, his voice turning savage. “Here are my terms. You have two hours. You will bring Warren Halloway’s decoded ledger and the bronze guild seal to the Cathedral of St. John in downtown Providence. Ambrose will come alone, unarmed, with no guards within five miles. If I see a single Raldi car on the perimeter, I will blow your brother’s head off on live video.”

Vane leaned closer to the lens, his yellowed teeth bared in a feral grin.

“Bring me the book, Rosalind. Or your brother joins your father in the dirt.”