Two hours later, the rain was still pounding relentless against the floor-to-ceiling glass of Dominic’s forty-second-floor office.

The room was lit only by the green glow of three encrypted monitors on my side desk and the soft yellow light from the fireplace. The smell of cedar, gun oil, and faint cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air.

I had changed out of the ruined navy dress into a pair of dry black trousers and an oversized wool sweater Dominic had retrieved from his private quarters attached to the office. The sleeves were too long, covering my knuckles as my fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard.

Across the room, Dominic stood by the glass, holding a glass of amber bourbon he still hadn’t touched. His charcoal jacket was gone, his shoulder holster exposed over his crisp white shirt, the leather dark against his ribs.

“Moretti’s servers just pinged our Nassau shell corporation,” I said, my voice monotonous as I analyzed the scrolling lines of code. “They didn’t just guess the account sequence, Dominic. They had the secondary authentication key.”

Dominic didn’t turn around. “That key is kept in three places. My safe, your ledger, and Frank Bell’s desk.”

I froze, my fingers hovering over the keys.

Frank Bell. The quiet, silver-haired security officer who had worked the lobby desk for eleven years. The man who had smiled at me every evening and told me to be careful in the rain.

“Frank?” I whispered, turning in my chair to look at Dominic’s back. “Frank has been with your family since your father was running the docks. Why would he sell you out to Moretti?”

“Because his daughter needs a bone marrow transplant in Baltimore,” Dominic replied calmly, taking his first slow sip of bourbon. “And Moretti offered to pay two hundred thousand dollars in cash to jump the donor list.”

A sickening knot formed in my stomach. “Did you… did you have Thomas kill him?”

Dominic turned around slowly. The firelight carved sharp shadows across his face.

“Frank is sitting in the basement holding room right now,” Dominic said. “He knows what happens to traitors. He’s waiting for me to go downstairs.”

I swallowed hard, pulling the sleeves of the oversized sweater over my hands. “Dominic… his daughter is dying.”

“I know,” Dominic said. “And if his betrayal had succeeded, Moretti’s men would have shot you through the head at that restaurant table tonight just to stop you from locking the accounts.”

He walked over to my desk, his heavy leather shoes making no sound against the Persian rug. He leaned down, placing both hands on the edge of my desk, trapping me between his arms. His dark eyes burned into mine, close enough that I could smell the sharp, smoky aroma of his bourbon.

“Do you understand now, Norah?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “You think you can play at being normal. You think you can go on dates with schoolteachers and pretend you aren’t part of this world. But the moment my enemies see a crack in my foundation, they don’t strike at me. They strike at you.”

My breath hitched. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I stared up into his dark, ruthless eyes.

“Why?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Why me? I’m just your accountant, Dominic.”

Dominic reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my cheek. His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle for a man whose hands ordered deaths without a second thought.

“Because everyone in this city knows I don’t care about the warehouses,” Dominic murmured, his thumb resting against the sharp line of my jawbone. “I don’t care about the docks. I don’t care about the sixty million dollars.”

He leaned in closer, his lips inches from mine.

“You are the only thing in this city I cannot afford to lose, Norah.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped beast. For four years, we had danced around this silent, suffocating gravity between us—never touching, never speaking it aloud, building a fortress of numbers and silence around our unspoken truth.

And now, with blood on the floor of a Beacon Hill bistro and sixty million dollars hanging in the balance, the fortress was crumbling.

“Dominic…” I breathed.

Before he could answer, the red landline phone on his main desk began to ring.

A loud, piercing electronic chime that shattered the intimate silence of the room.

Once.

Twice.

Dominic didn’t break eye contact with me for three full seconds. Then, with a slow, controlled exhale, he stood up straight and walked over to his desk.

He picked up the receiver. “Speak.”

He listened for five seconds. His face didn’t change, but the muscle along his jaw tightened into a rigid steel line.