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He lifted my left hand, guiding my fourth finger until the tip of my knuckle brushed against something freezing and heavy. A platinum band, cold as ice, set with an intricate square stone.

He slid the ring all the way down to the base of my finger, his thumb pressing firmly into my palm, right over the scar we had shared since childhood.

"Because you belong to me, Iris," he whispered, his voice trembling with an obsessive, terrifying devotion that made my blood burn through the morphine haze. "Danny gave you to me. Your blood was paid to my house. You are Donna Messina now, and no god, no priest, and no darkness will ever take you from my arms."

"I don't... I don't want to be in the dark," I cried, the anesthesia pulling my consciousness down like heavy anchors into a black sea.

"You're not in the dark, Kitten." His voice faded as my mind slipped away, his lips pressing one final, possessive kiss to my forehead. "You're with me."

When the blackness finally swallowed me whole, I was no longer falling.

I was held.

TWENTY-FIVE

ROMEO

My knees still ache from the Escalade floor. My chest feels wider than the Atlantic.

For three years I thought I had built her survival. The walls. The locks. The drugging. I told myself holding her meant keeping her fragile. I was an idiot. I mistook trauma for weakness.

Watching Iris carve Father Donald on that altar, watching her stand in the flickering candlelight with blood dripping from her knuckles and demand that I kneel before her, shattered every illusion I had left.

I knelt for no man in my life. Not for Emilio when he beat the discipline of the famiglia into my hide with a leather belt. Not for the Commission when they tried to carve up the Brooklyn docks. Not for the priest who poured oil on my forehead when they made me Don.

I knelt for Iris.

And tasting her on my tongue while she gripped my hair and forced every confession out of my throat was the closest thing to salvation I will ever get. Her sweetness coated my lips, mingling with the metallic tang of gunpowder and copper, and when she shattered against my mouth, I felt my own soul crack open to let her in.

The Escalade glides down the West Side Highway just as the gray fingers of dawn begin to peel back the storm clouds over the Hudson River. Iris sits curled against my side, her head resting on my collarbone, her small hand buried in the crook of my arm. She’s exhausted. Her breath comes in deep, slow measures that tickle the bare skin of my chest through my unbuttoned shirt. Sofia lies stretched across our feet on the floorboard, chin resting on her front paws, one eye cracked open to watch the streetlamps blur past.

Tony steers us into the private underground garage beneath the Cunnington building. The hydraulic gates grind shut behind us with a heavy, final clank, locking out the noise of Manhattan.

"Perimeter is secure, Don," Tony says quietly, checking his rearview mirror. "Enzo has two teams stationed in the lobby and another four men on the roof. Jamie's convoy pulled into the south bay three minutes ago."

"Good," I rumble, resting my chin against Iris's hair. "Bring Jamie upstairs in ten minutes. Give us the room first."

Iris stirs at the sound of my voice, her eyelashes fluttering against my neck. She sits up slowly, rolling her shoulders with a soft wince. The emerald silk gown is shredded past her hip, stained with soot, rain, and blood. Her red hair is a wild, tangled mane falling around her pale face, but the red silk ribbon remains firmly in her fist.

She turns her cloudy green eyes toward the window, looking at the concrete walls of the garage.

"We are back," she whispers.

"We are home, Kitten," I correct her, reaching out to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. My thumb grazes the delicate web of scar tissue near her temple. "Our building. Our fortress."

She turns her head back toward me, her brow furrowing with that sharp, assessing intelligence that always keeps me on my toes. "What happens now, Romeo? The monastery is ash, but there are still soldiers on the streets. Danny is gone. The docks have no leader."

"We will settle the docks within the hour," I tell her, sliding out of the SUV and offering her my hand.

She takes it without hesitation. Her small palm fits against mine, our matching scars pressing together, two jagged lines forged by the same blade a long time ago.

I lead her directly to the private elevator, Sofia trotting briskly behind us. The doors slide shut, and the elevator climbs smoothly toward the top floor.

When the doors open into the penthouse, the scent of lavender and fresh linen welcomes us. Inga stands near the kitchen island, wringing a dish towel in her hands, her face pale with worry. The moment she sees Iris, tears well in the old woman's eyes.

"Oh, my sweet lamb," Inga chokes out in her thick Scottish brogue, rushing forward with open arms.

Iris stops her with a single raised hand.