A heavy, leather-bound book sat untouched on the mahogany coffee table in front of me.

The heavy oak doors clicked open, and Dominic walked in. He had removed his suit jacket, his white dress shirt rolled up at the forearms, revealing corded muscles and old, faded scars that told a history of violence I didn't care to imagine.

He poured two fingers of amber scotch into a crystal glass, didn't offer me any, and leaned against the edge of the desk, studying me with clinical detachment.

"My guards checked your background," Dominic said, his deep voice echoing in the vast room. "Claire Miller. Born in Gary, Indiana. Moved to Chicago four years ago. Paid rent on time, kept your head down, worked double shifts at Aurelia."

I kept my hands folded in my lap, praying my pulse wasn't visible in my throat. "It’s all true."

"Is it?" Dominic took a slow sip of his scotch. "Because according to my men, the Social Security number you provided was registered to a vacant lot in Indianapolis until five years ago. Which means you fabricated your identity."

My stomach dropped like an elevator plunging from the fortieth floor.

"In my world, Claire, people don't fake their names unless they're running from the law—or working for my enemies," Dominic continued, stepping closer until his imposing shadow fell over me. "Marcus confessed to planting the incendiary device in my wife’s car two years ago. He thought he could usurp my syndicates by creating chaos. But before he died in that basement tonight, he muttered something very interesting."

I swallowed hard. "What?"

"He said you knew too much about the Mercer family," Dominic said, his eyes narrowing to razor-thin slits. "He said you looked like old Arthur Mercer. The man who tried to wipe out my father’s shipping lines back in the nineties."

The air in the library turned to ice.

Arthur Mercer was my father. The man who had spent his final days coughing up blood in a rundown cabin in Indiana, whispering warnings into my ear: “Never let Dominic Vale find out who you are, Claire. He owns Chicago, and he won't stop until every Mercer is in the dirt.”

I forced myself to meet Dominic’s terrifying gaze, channeling every ounce of defiance I possessed.

"My father was a drunk mechanic in Indiana," I said evenly, my voice not shaking by a single millimeter. "I've never met an Arthur Mercer in my life. If Marcus said that, he was grasping at straws to save his own skin."

Dominic stared at me for ten agonizingly long seconds. He searched my face for any micro-expression, any sign of deceit.

Finally, a slow, dangerous smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe," Dominic murmured. "Or maybe you're a very good liar."

He turned around, walking over to the double doors. "Audrey hasn't spoken or signed to a stranger in two years. Since her mother died and Marcus poisoned her world, she hasn't let anyone touch her except me. Yet tonight, she grabbed your sleeve. She trusted you."

"Children know who is safe and who isn't," I replied quietly.

"True," Dominic said, pausing at the door. "That is why you are not sleeping in a jail cell tonight. You saved my daughter from a monster, Claire. For that, you have my protection. But do not mistake my gratitude for trust."

He opened the door. "You are staying in the guest suite on the third floor. Starting tomorrow, you are no longer a waitress at Aurelia. You are Audrey’s full-time private companion and tutor."

"Wait—Mr. Vale, I didn't agree to—"

"You don't have a choice," Dominic cut in coldly. "You stay under my roof where I can watch you. If you try to run, my men will find you before you reach the Illinois state line."

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the dark library with the ghosts of two warring families hanging over my head.