The Mafia Boss Had Never Loved Anyone Until a Soaking...

The sun rose over Roland Park, casting a soft, golden light across the damaged estate. Smoke still drifted from the burned rear gates, and forensic teams under Vincent's payroll were quietly clearing the premises, ensuring no trace of the battle remained for public eyes.

Inside the primary master suite, Harper sat on the edge of the bed. A physician had examined her—she had suffered only minor bruises and a shallow cut on her arm from flying glass.

Vincent stood by the balcony window, looking out over his ruined grounds. He wore a fresh black shirt, but his posture was heavy, burdened by a crushing weight of guilt.

He turned to face her.

"I brought war to your doorstep," Vincent said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. "I told myself I could protect you. But last night... you almost died because of me."

Harper looked up at him, her arm wrapped in clean white gauze. "Vincent, I'm okay. You came for me."

"It was too close, Harper!" Vincent slammed his fist against the wooden door frame, the sudden crack echoing through the quiet bedroom. He closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "If I had been thirty seconds later... I wouldn't have survived losing you."

He walked over to his desk, picking up a leather passport holder and a thick envelope. He placed them gently on the nightstand beside her.

"What's this?" Harper asked, a sudden chill creeping into her heart.

"A new identity," Vincent said quietly, avoiding her eyes. "Fifty million dollars in a blind Swiss trust. A deed to a home in the south of France. A flight leaving from Dulles Airport at 4:00 PM today."

Harper stared at the envelope, then raised her head, looking at him in utter disbelief. "You're sending me away?"

"I am giving you your life back," Vincent corrected, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to remain firm. "You don't belong in this world of blood, terror, and steel, Harper. You belong in a world of art, light, and safety. Staying with me will eventually get you killed."

Harper stood up from the bed, marching straight up to him. "Did you ask me what I wanted?"

"I am making the executive decision—"

"Fuck your executive decision!" Harper yelled, tears spilling from her brown eyes. "You don't get to decide what my life is worth, Vincent Rourke! I love you! I know who you are, I know what you do, and I chose to stay!"

"You don't know what you're choosing!" Vincent roared, grabbing her arms, his face tortured. "Look at this house! Look at what happened last night! My world is poison, Harper! Everyone who gets close to me ends up ruined or dead!"

"You saved me!" she sobbed, pressing her hands against his chest. "You gave me a home! You cared for me when no one else did! You think I care about France? You think I care about money? I care about you!"

Vincent looked into her fierce, beautiful eyes, feeling his resolve crumbling to ash. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and keep her forever. But the memory of seeing a gun pointed at her head in that dark basement terrified him more than death itself.