Three weeks later, the snow began to fall over Chicago, dusting the grand limestone steps of the DeLuca Tower in a blanket of pristine white.

Inside the penthouse suite, the roaring fire in the stone hearth cast a warm, golden glow across the Persian rugs and towering mahogany bookshelves.

Arthur Moreity sat comfortably in an armchair by the fire, sipping hot tea and laughing quietly as a private medical team ensured his full recovery in a secure, sunlit wing of the estate.

On the private balcony, overlooking the glittering expanse of the frozen lake, Elena stood wrapped in a heavy cashmere shawl.

The glass door slid open behind her.

Roman stepped out, holding two crystal flutes of vintage champagne. He handed one to her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin gently on her shoulder.

“Your father is resting,” Roman murmured softly. “The medical reports are clear. He’s going to live a long, safe life.”

Elena leaned back against his chest, closing her eyes and listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Thank you, Roman,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For not letting me be invisible anymore.”

Roman turned her gently in his arms, looking down into her dark eyes with a devotion that defied every law of the criminal underworld he ruled.

“You were never invisible, Elena,” Roman said, his voice deep and absolute. “You were just waiting for a king strong enough to let you share his throne.”

He leaned down, sealing his lips to hers as the snow swirled softly around them, blanketing the city below in a quiet, enduring peace. The waitress who had been treated like trash had not only survived the syndicate—she had become its heart.