When Clara finally opened her eyes, the world was hazy and soft. She felt a dull ache in her chest, but the terrifying pressure that had haunted her for years was gone.

She turned her head. The hospital room didn't look like a hospital room. It was filled with vases of white lilies, thick curtains, and a soft, warm lamp.

Sitting in a chair beside her bed, still wearing a charcoal suit—though it was rumpled and missing its tie—was Raphael Duca. He was asleep, his head resting against the wall, a small, graying cloth horse with one eye tucked into his lap.

Clara watched him. The terrifying master of Boston, the man who made contractors beg, was guarding a child's toy while she slept.

She moved her hand, the bedsheets rustling.

Raphael woke instantly. His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, before softening completely as they landed on her face.

He leaned forward, pressing a button to call the nurse, but before they arrived, he took Clara’s hand in his. His grip was incredibly gentle.

"You're awake," he said, his voice thick with relief.

"Noel?" she rasped, her throat dry.

"She is safe. She is with Mrs. Dora at the house. They are waiting for you to come home."

Home. The word made tears prick Clara's eyes. "The surgery... how much... I can never repay you."

"There are no debts between us, Clara," Raphael said, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "The doctors repaired the valve. They said with rest, your heart will be as strong as anyone's. You're going to live."

Clara looked at the man who had torn down a city for her. She saw the scar on his jaw, the mark of the night his father died. She reached up slowly, her hand trembling, and touched it.

Raphael closed his eyes, leaning into her palm. No one had touched him with tenderness in fifteen years.