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But now—

Her image burned in my mind. Her silky skin under moonlight, trembling under my touch. The way she had felt, so tight, so perfect, that desperate, needy moan when I had claimed her for the first time. Goddamn.

My body tightened, blood rushing south. Just the memory was enough to make me lose it.

This wasn't right. This kind of obsession made you weak, and in my world, weak got you dead. I should've walked out, left her sleeping, and gotten my head back in the game. But when I reached the door, I froze.

Walking out like that—after taking her like that, her first time—felt too cold, even for me.

I turned back, standing over the bed, staring at her soft features. After a long moment, I leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her forehead. She hummed softly in her sleep, instinctively shifting toward my warmth.

That small move hit me like a punch, making my heart clench.

I grabbed a pen and jotted a note on the nightstand: "Breakfast's on its way. Last night was something else, ??? ???????. —G"

Back at the estate, dawn was breaking, gray light creeping over the horizon. I had barely slept, but there was work to do—piles of papers waiting in my study. Deals to close, enemies to watch. Except I couldn't focus. My mind was stuck on her. Cassie. My rose.

A knock snapped me out of it.

"Come in," I said, my voice hard, but there was an edge to it, rougher than usual.

Dimitri stepped inside, his face grim, holding a black leather folder—the kind we used for sensitive intel. "Boss, Antonio talked," he said, setting it on my desk. "You're gonna wanna hear this."

I nodded for him to sit, forcing my focus away from Cassie. "Go."

"Antonio admitted he leaked the East End warehouse info," Dimitri said, voice low. "But it's not some lowlife pulling the strings."

My eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"The Bailey family."

The name dropped the room's temperature to arctic levels. The Baileys—southern old money, ruthless, no code. Their reach shouldn't have been anywhere near Chicago.

"Details," I said, my fingers tapping the desk—a habit when I was thinking, or when shit was about to hit the fan.

"Antonio said someone approached him, offered a fat stack to spill our shipping routes and schedules. Whoever it was knew our operation inside out—Antonio's gambling debts, his daughter's school. Everything." Dimitri paused, his jaw tight. "This wasn't random, Boss. Someone's playing chess."

A name flashed in my mind, one that made my blood boil. Marco Moretti. That slimy, psychotic Italian bastard. Three years ago, he had butchered an entire apartment building in Philly—men, women, kids, even babies—seventy-three bodies, all because he suspected a leak. If he was behind this, it wasn't just business. It was war.

"What else did Antonio say?" My voice was low, dangerous, like the calm before a storm.

"They talked about a 'new order' in Chicago, said it was time for old families to step aside for 'visionary leadership.'" Dimitri's eyes flashed with anger. "And, Boss… they know about Anya."

Rage hit me like a freight train. I stood, slamming the whiskey glass down, amber liquid splashing. Anyone who threatened my daughter was a dead man walking.

"Put eyes on Marco, twenty-four-seven," I said, my voice ice-cold. "I want to know what he eats, what he drinks, when he fucking sleeps."

Dimitri nodded, understanding the unspoken promise in my tone. "And Anya?"

"Tighten security around the estate and her kindergarten. No unfamiliar faces anywhere near her."

"Got it, Boss." He headed for the door.

"One more thing," I called out. "No mistakes. Marco's a dead man if he tries anything."

The door clicked shut, and I sank back into my chair, fury still burning. That bastard thought he could come for my family? I'd bury him.

My phone lit up, pulling me out of my rage. A message. From her.