"She had no money, no power, and no idea who she was saving—until the little boy whispered “Papa,” and she realized she had just thrown herself between a crime lord and his only son.

Before the man could issue another command, heavy footsteps pounded against the marble floor, and two burly men in identical dark suits materialized on either side of us like statues carved from granite.

“Boss,” the taller one said, his voice tense as his hand hovered near his jacket holster. “The perimeter is locked down. Media is outside, but we’re blocking the doors. Do we clear the room?”

The man holding me—the boy’s father—didn't take his eyes off my face. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.

“Not yet, Dante,” he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Get the medic kit from the Lincoln. Now.”

“Dante,” my brain repeated. Dante Moretti.

The name hit me like a physical blow. The head of the Moretti syndicate—a name whispered in hushed tones across Chicago’s docks, financial sectors, and political offices. People said he didn't negotiate; he simply dismantled obstacles. And I had just thrown my body over his only son, taking a storm of broken glass meant for the heir to the most feared underworld empire in the Midwest.

“Papa, her back is wet,” little Leo whispered, his small voice trembling as he finally crawled out from beneath my arms. He looked down at his tiny palms, seeing streaks of my blood smeared across his skin, and his lower lip began to quiver. “Is she hurt bad?”

Dante Moretti shifted his gaze from me to his son, his expression softening for a microsecond—a rare, fragile glimpse of humanity behind the stone mask.

“She’s going to be fine, Leo,” Dante murmured, though his eyes returned to me with a fierce, burning possessiveness. He gently placed a hand on the small of my back, millimeter-precise to avoid the embedded glass. “Can you stand?”

“I... I think so,” I lied, trying to push myself up on shaky elbows.

The moment I shifted my weight, a white-hot wave of pain ripped across my spine, and my vision tunneled into total blackness. My arms gave out completely, and I would have crashed straight back onto the glass-strewn floor if Dante’s strong arms hadn't swept underneath me, scooping me up effortlessly against his chest.

I let out a sharp gasp, instinctively grabbing the lapel of his expensive suit jacket to keep from falling, smearing blood across the pristine charcoal fabric.

Dante didn't even flinch at the ruined cloth. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all, his dark eyes locked onto mine.

“Hold onto me,” he ordered, a command disguised as a plea.

The large man named Dante carried me past the rows of stunned, paralyzed diners, past the terrified manager of Lumina who stood frozen near the host stand like a deer caught in headlights, and straight through the private side exit leading out into the cool Chicago night.

A sleek, matte-black armored SUV was idling curbside with its rear doors already open.

Dante gently placed me inside on the leather bench seat, resting me sideways so my back wouldn't press against the cushions. Leo scrambled in right behind us, climbing onto the seat with wide, frightened eyes.

“Stay here with her, Leo,” Dante instructed quietly, pulling a heavy medical pouch from the vehicle's compartment.

The doors clicked shut, plunging the interior into a cocoon of dim, warm light. Outside, the rain drummed a relentless, soothing rhythm against the reinforced glass.

Leo crawled closer to me, his small hands hovering nervously over my arm.

“You saved my dinosaur,” the boy whispered solemnly, holding up the scratched plastic T-Rex.

A weak, breathless laugh slipped past my lips, tasting faintly of copper.

“I saved you, silly,” I corrected gently, wincing as a spasm of pain shot down my side. “Dinosaurs can take care of themselves.”

Leo’s small brow furrowed in deep thought. Then he reached out, using his sleeve to gently wipe a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “My papa is going to fix your back. He fixes everything.”

Before I could answer, the door opened again, and Dante climbed inside, closing it against the storm. He stripped off his suit jacket, tossing it onto the floor, revealing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick, corded forearms covered in faint scars and dark tattoos.

He knelt beside the bench seat, his expression completely focused.

“This is going to hurt,” Dante warned quietly, holding a pair of sterilized medical tweezers in his right hand and a bottle of antiseptic in his left. “Clara—right? That’s what your name tag said before it got torn off.”

I nodded slowly, my breath hitching as he gently sliced away the remaining fabric of my ruined uniform around the largest shard of glass embedded in my shoulder.

“Clara,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue as if committing it to memory. “Hold onto my arm, Clara. Squeeze as hard as you need to.”

I didn't hesitate. I reached out, grabbing his forearm with both hands, my fingers digging desperately into his hard muscle as Dante began to pull the first piece of glass from my flesh.

The pain was absolute, blinding, and visceral. A choked sob tore from my throat, and I buried my face against his shoulder, my nails digging deep into his skin as he worked with steady, unflinching precision.

Dante didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He just held me steady, his other hand resting firmly on my hip, anchoring me to the earth while he extracted the wreckage of a wealthy man's careless disaster from my body.

When the last shard clinked against the metal tray, I was shivering uncontrollably, my forehead slick with cold sweat, resting limply against his chest.

Dante gently pressed a clean gauze pad over the wound, his hand lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary against my skin.

“It’s done,” he whispered near my ear, his voice rough and low.

I opened my eyes, finding myself staring directly into those fathomless, dark depths. The terrifying mob boss of Chicago was looking at me not as a peasant, not as a disposable servant, but as something infinitely precious.

“Why?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. “You didn't have to do this yourself. You have men for this.” u