he first sound that terrified me wasn’t a gunshot. It was laughter. Bright, uncontrollable, childish laughter spilling through the spotless marble kitchen of Dominic Moretti—the most feared man in Boston. And when I saw who was laughing, my stomach dropped. Dominic’s six-year-old son, Leo, stood barefoot in a puddle of soapy water, his expensive shirt soaked through, his dark hair dripping over his forehead.

The wound was ugly, but clean enough to stitch. The bullet had torn through the flesh along his lower ribcage without shattering bone.

I worked in absolute silence. The only sounds in the room were the violent rattle of rain against the glass and Dominic's ragged breathing. I cleaned the wound with antiseptic, feeling the taut, rock-hard muscle of his torso flinch beneath my fingers. His body was a roadmap of violence—faded scars on his shoulder, a surgical incision near his collarbone, and now this fresh tear.

"You're not afraid of blood," he muttered, his voice gravelly as I threaded the surgical needle.

"When you raise a toddler, blood, bruises, and panic become routine," I whispered, keeping my focus locked on his skin. "Bite down on something. This will hurt."

He didn't bite down on anything. He didn't even make a sound. He simply gripped the velvet armrests until the seams groaned under the pressure of his hands.

I worked swiftly, placing neat, precise stitches along the edge of the wound. Every time my fingers brushed against his warm skin, a strange, electric tension rippled through the air. He was entirely at my mercy, yet he possessed an aura of raw power that felt intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

"Why didn't you run away?" he asked suddenly, his gaze fixed on my face as I tied off the third knot. "Most people who see me bleed start packing their bags. They know what follows."

"Because you didn't yell at Leo when you saw the broken vase," I said softly, meeting his intense dark eyes for a brief moment. "You yelled at me. You took the anger out on the adult, not the child. That told me you're not a monster, Mr. Moretti. Just a broken man."

His jaw tightened, a dangerous shadow crossing his features. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you cry when you think no one is listening," the words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Dominic went completely still. The silence between us stretched so taut I thought it would snap.

"You heard," he whispered.

"Yes."

He let out a dry, bitter laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Then you know I failed. Sophia was killed because an associate of mine wanted leverage. Leo was in the back seat. He heard the gunfire. He watched his mother bleed out before my security team could reach them."

Tears pricked my eyes as the horror of the reality sank in.

"Leo stopped laughing after that day," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "Every time he smiled, it looked like Sophia's smile. And every time I heard him laugh... it felt like someone was ripping my chest open, reminding me that she was gone because of my choices."

I finished the final stitch, wiped away the excess iodine, and taped a sterile gauze pad securely over the wound.

I stepped back, washing my hands in the basin. "Leo doesn't need you to mourn his mother by disappearing, Dominic," I said, using his first name without realizing it. "He needs you to live. Otherwise, the people who hurt her win twice."

Dominic looked down at the neat row of stitches, then up at me. His gaze was searching, piercing, stripped bare of all his usual hostility.