The smoke from the burning balcony curtains billowed into the high-ceilinged bedroom, carrying the sharp stench of cordite, singed velvet, and old blood.

Three months later.

The city had changed.

With Don Corvo stripped of his power and sent into exile, and the High Council brought under Roman’s firm control, the violence that had plagued the harbor for thirty years came to an end.

Under my direction, the Valente-Vance alliance began converting the old illegal shipping docks into legitimate international trade hubs. We built a new municipal center in the North Hills—right where the old Valente estate had burned—and established a foundation that funded local businesses, tailors, and artisans.

Eleanor was moved into a beautiful, sun-drenched cottage on the grounds of the Vance Estate, complete with her own personal garden and sewing room. She no longer worked eighteen-hour days. She spent her mornings drinking tea and overseeing the creation of my new wardrobe.

One warm autumn afternoon, the estate hosted a grand gala to celebrate the opening of the new harbor terminal.

Hundreds of guests filled the restored ballroom—the same ballroom where bullets had shattered glass three months ago. The orchestra played sweet, sweeping waltzes beneath the massive crystal chandelier.

I stood near the black marble fireplace, wearing an exquisite midnight-blue silk gown designed personally by Eleanor. The dress featured an asymmetrical, off-the-shoulder cut that proudly displayed my Valente birthmark, adorned now with a delicate silver chain that held the completed pendant around my neck.

The same high-society women who had mocked me on my wedding night now stood at a respectful distance, looking at me with awe, admiration, and clear reverence.

"You look like an empress, my lady," a familiar voice whispered beside me.

I turned to see Viktor, wearing a sharp tux, holding two glasses of champagne. He handed one to me with a respectful bow.

"Thank you, Viktor," I smiled, taking a sip. "How are the perimeter reports?"

"Boring, ma'am," Viktor chuckled. "Not a single rival crew within fifty miles. Turns out no one wants to mess with the Don who married a woman who beat Don Corvo with a hunting knife."

I laughed softly, looking around the crowded room. "Where is Roman?"

"He's on the terrace," Viktor gestured with his head. "Waiting for you."

I walked through the open French doors onto the marble terrace overlooking the stormy Atlantic Ocean.

Roman stood by the stone railing, wearing a tailored black tuxedo. The cut on his cheek had healed into a faint, distinguished scar that made him look even more devastatingly handsome. He held a glass of scotch, staring out at the dark horizon.

I walked up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against his back.

"Thinking about business?" I asked softly.

Roman laid his hands over mine, turning around in my arms, pulling me close against his chest. "I was thinking about our wedding night."

"Which part?" I teased, looking up into his dark gray eyes. "The gunfight in the ballroom, the fire in the bedroom, or the blood trial at the Citadel?"

"All of it," Roman smiled, his thumb tracing my jawline. "It was the best night of my life."