I HAD POWER, MONEY, AND MEN WHO WOULD KILL FOR ME, BUT NONE OF IT MATTERED WHEN MY WIFE ARRIVED ALONE AND BLEEDING—UNTIL I OPENED HER CRACKED PHONE AND DISCOVERED WHO SHE HAD BEEN MEETING.

Returning to the penthouse felt less like coming back to a fortress and more like stepping across the threshold of a home for the very first time.

Because Clara’s memories were anchored five years in the past—before the weight of the syndicate, the midnight phone calls, and the cold emotional distance had hollowed out our marriage—she moved through the sprawling residence with an unburdened lightness that took my breath away.

She walked out onto the wraparound terrace, her face turned up toward the midday sun, closing her eyes as the autumn wind caught her hair.

“It’s just as beautiful as I remembered,” she murmured, leaning back against my chest as I wrapped my arms around her waist.

“We can change anything you want,” I whispered against her temple, my hands resting over hers. “The decor, the layout, the city itself. If you want a fresh start somewhere else—Europe, the coast, anywhere—we can pack tonight.”

Clara turned in my embrace, looking up into my eyes with that gentle, unclouded gaze that had once made me fall in love with her in a crowded Chicago art gallery.

“We don't need a new city, Dom,” she smiled softly, her fingers tracing the lapel of my jacket. “We just need us. You’ve been working so hard lately. I can see it in your eyes—the exhaustion. Let’s just breathe for a while. Together.”

Her words struck me with the force of a physical blow. She didn't know about the empire, the blood on my hands, or the enemies buried in shallow graves across the state. In her mind, I was still the ambitious, devoted man she had married before the underworld consumed my soul.