For the next three days, Emma and Noah were hidden in Niko’s fortified penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan.
Two massive guards — Arthur “Gable” and Paulie “Walnuts” — watched over them.
To Emma’s surprise, the intimidating men spent hours playing Mario Kart with Noah and devouring the chocolate chip cookies she baked in the penthouse’s commercial kitchen to calm her nerves.
Niko was gone most of the time, waging a violent, systematic purge of his organization.
News reports exploded with “gang-related incidents.”
Carmine Russo was found locked in the trunk of his own Mercedes at the bottom of the Chicago River.
Tommy Viti vanished without a trace.
Alistair was fired and blacklisted after anonymous tips exposed his corruption.
On the fourth morning, as dawn painted the sky pink over the lake, Niko returned.
Exhausted, suit rumpled, a dark bruise on his cheekbone.
Emma was already up, wearing oversized sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, her thick thighs brushing the granite island as she poured coffee.
She slid a steaming mug toward him without a word.
“It’s over,” Niko said, voice raspy.
“You and Noah are safe.
I’ve set up a trust fund for Noah — college, living expenses, everything.
Greg’s debt is gone.”
Emma crossed her arms over her chest, stubborn pride flashing.
“I didn’t ask for your money, Niko.”
“I know,” he replied, stepping closer.
“That’s why I want to give it to you.
You’re the only person in 15 years who looked at me and saw a man — not power, not a bank account, not a bullet.
You’re a criminal,” she stated plainly.
“A dangerous one.”
“I am,” he agreed, unflinching.
“And you’re a baker from the South Side who stood down a snob and shielded her child with her own body.
We don’t make sense, Emma.
My world is dark, cold, paranoid.
But you…” He reached out, fingers tracing the soft curve of her waist, reveling in her generous, real body.
“You are warm.
You are real.
I don’t want to drag you into my darkness.
I want to step into your light.”
Emma’s breath hitched.
“Niko, I’m a fat, exhausted single mother.
Stretch marks, negative bank balance.
I’m not some mafia princess.”
He smiled — a rare, breathtaking expression that changed his entire face.
He pulled her against him, her soft belly pressing intimately into his hard torso.
His arms wrapped around her wide back, holding her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.
“Thank God for that,” he murmured into her hair.
“I’m done with princesses.
