The first bullet blew out the birthday candles. The next six were meant for a little girl in a white dress. By the time the screaming stopped, I was bleeding across the marble floor of Chicago’s most feared mob boss, and Nico Vitali was staring at me like something inside him had just broken open.

The recovery of the telemetry files sent a shockwave through the Chicago underworld.

Within forty-eight hours, federal authorities launched simultaneous raids on six Ivanov-owned shell companies, seizing over eighty million dollars in illicit assets based on the financial routing keys extracted from the drive. The Belarusian cartel was shattered, its leaders fleeing toward East Coast ports or hiding in subterranean safehouses across Cook County.

In the Vitali mansion, however, the mood was deceptive.

A grand celebration was scheduled for Saturday evening—not for the destruction of the Ivanovs, but for Mia’s seventh birthday.

"Nico insists on keeping her life normal," Mrs. Gable explained as she helped me pin a stunning maroon silk dress around my waist in my bedroom suite. "No matter how dark the streets get outside those iron gates, when Mia turns a year older, this house becomes a palace of light."

I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress was elegant, understated, yet possessive—a deep jewel tone that made my pale skin and dark hair pop.

Over the last two weeks, my father had been quietly relocated to a farm in southern Iowa under round-the-clock Vitali surveillance—alive, sober, and completely stripped of his ability to ruin my life. My mother's house had been purchased back from the bookie and placed into a secure trust under my name.

My debt was paid. I was free to leave.

Yet every time I packed my single suitcase, my hands stopped. Every time Nico walked into a room, my pulse elevated not out of fear, but out of a dark, magnetic pull that had taken root deep beneath my ribs.

I walked down to the main ballroom at 5:00 PM.

The high-ceilinged room had been transformed into an enchanted garden. White roses—thousands of them, imported directly from South America—covered the grand pillars and wrapped around the brass chandeliers. Soft classical music played from a string quartet near the balcony.

Dozens of high-ranking family lieutenants, political figures, and legal associates filled the space, drinking champagne and speaking in hushed, respectful tones.

Mia was radiant, running around the marble floor in a magnificent white lace birthday dress, a tiny rhinestone tiara perched on her dark curls.

Near the grand fireplace stood Nico.

He wore a tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, a crystal glass of scotch held loosely in his left hand. As I entered the ballroom, his gaze drifted across the crowd, landing on me instantly.

The conversation he was having with two senior lieutenants died on his lips. He excused himself without looking back, walking straight through the crowd toward me.

"Ms. Hart," he murmured as he reached me, his gaze sweeping down the length of my maroon dress with an intensity that made my skin flush warm. "You look extraordinary."

"You transformed this place," I said, looking around at the white roses. "It doesn't look like a mob headquarters."

"Tonight, it isn't," Nico said softly, stepping closer so his shoulder brushed against mine. "Tonight, it's just my daughter's home."

"I received the deed to my mother's house this morning," I said, looking up into his grey eyes. "And the confirmation from the state nursing board. My record is completely clean."

Nico took a slow sip of his scotch. "Then you have everything you asked for."

"Yes."

"When are you leaving?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, devoid of its usual commanding sharpness.

I stared at the black satin lapel of his tuxedo, feeling the heavy silence stretch between us. "I should pack tonight."

"And if I asked you to stay?" Nico murmured, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against the soft skin of my jaw. "Not as a nurse. Not as an asset. But because this house is cold when you aren't in it."

My breath hitched. "Nico... you live in a world of gunfire and blood. I fix people. I heal them. I don't belong here."

"You held your ground in my study when three armed men couldn't make me blink, Nora," Nico said, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. "You belong wherever you damn well choose to stand."

Before I could answer, a loud chime echoed through the ballroom.

Mrs. Gable walked into the center of the room pushing a magnificent three-tiered white birthday cake topped with seven glowing pink candles.

The crowd gathered around, clapping and smiling as Mia squealed with delight, running to stand in front of the table. Nico smiled—a genuine, radiant expression—and reached out to take my hand, pulling me gently to stand beside him and his daughter near the cake.

"Make a wish, Mia!" Marco called out from the side of the room, smiling broadly.

Mia closed her eyes, took a deep, dramatic breath, and leaned forward over the seven flickering flames.

Suddenly, my medical training—or perhaps an instinct born of weeks spent living among predators—screamed a warning in my chest.

I looked at the high, arched stained-glass windows overlooking the rose garden.

A tiny, red laser dot flickered across the white lace of Mia's dress.