Kian turned back to Aurora.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” she lied.

His eyes dropped to her split lip.

“You lie badly.”

“I didn’t ask for help,” she said, because pride was the only weapon she had left.

“No,” he said. “My son did.”

Zayn beamed.

Kian reached into his jacket and removed a black card with silver numbers printed across the front. No name. No title. Just a phone number.

“If they return,” he said, “call.”

Aurora stared at the card. “I don’t need a mafia boss saving me.”

His expression did not change.

“Everyone needs something eventually.”

She hated the truth of that.

Still, she took the card.

Zayn waved as his father’s men guided him toward the door. “Goodbye, future wife! Don’t forget our promise!”

Aurora stood in the restaurant long after the black Maybach disappeared into Brooklyn traffic.

The card burned in her pocket.

That night, in her miserable Bronx apartment, Aurora shoved a chair under the doorknob and sat on the edge of her bed, shaking.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She knew before opening it.

You embarrassed me today. Tony is coming. Nobody saves trash twice.

Regina.

Aurora threw the phone onto the bed and pressed both hands over her mouth.

She would not call Kian Moretti.

She would not trade one cage for another.

She had survived twenty-seven years without anyone’s mercy.

But at two in the morning, the pounding started.

The first blow rattled the door.

The second cracked the frame.

“Open up,” a man growled. “We know you’re in there.”

Aurora ran for the window.

By the time the door splintered behind her, she was already crawling onto the fire escape barefoot, her palms slicing open on rusted metal. She climbed down so fast her knees slammed into the railings. A man cursed behind her. Another laughed.

She jumped the last few feet and hit the alley hard.

Pain shot up her legs.

She got up and ran.

The alley stank of garbage and rainwater. Her breath tore from her chest. Behind her, boots struck pavement, closer and closer until a hand caught her hair and yanked.

Aurora screamed.

A scarred man spun her around.

“Tony likes fighters,” he said. “Says they’re worth more.”

She clawed his face.

He struck her so hard light burst behind her eyes.

Then headlights flooded the alley.

A black SUV tore in like a beast unleashed.

The scarred man turned.

Two dark figures moved.

Aurora barely saw the fight. She heard it—fists, a grunt, a body hitting brick, the wet crack of someone’s nose breaking. Within seconds, both men were on the ground.

Kian Moretti stepped into the light.

He wore no jacket now, just a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His gray eyes moved over Aurora’s bleeding lip, her bare feet, the terror she could no longer hide.

“I told you to call.”

Her laugh came out like a sob. “How did you know?”

“I know what happens in my city.”

“This isn’t your city.”

His eyes hardened. “Tonight it is.”

He removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She wanted to refuse. Her pride tried to stand up inside her, bruised and stubborn.

But the coat was warm.

And she was so tired.

“Get in the car,” Kian said.

Aurora looked at the men on the ground. She looked up at the broken fire escape. She looked at the phone in her hand, still glowing with Regina’s threat.

Then she climbed into the SUV.

The Moretti estate stood in Alpine, New Jersey, behind iron gates and walls high enough to keep out the world. It looked less like a home than a fortress built by men who expected betrayal. White stone columns rose beneath the moonlight. Guards moved silently near the entrance. A fountain whispered in the cold.

Before Aurora could fully step out of the SUV, the front doors flew open.

“Miss Aurora!”

Zayn ran down the steps in superhero pajamas and crashed into her knees.

“I knew Dad would save you,” he cried. “I told him the witch was coming.”

Aurora knelt and hugged him.

For reasons she could not explain, the child’s small arms around her nearly broke something open in her chest.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Your dad chased the witch away.”

Zayn pulled back, studying her bruised cheek. His little face crumpled.

“She hurt you.”

Aurora touched his hair. “Not badly.”

He turned to Kian, furious. “Dad.”

“I handled it,” Kian said.

Zayn pointed a small finger at him. “Handle it more.”

One of the bodyguards coughed into his hand.

For the first time, Aurora saw the faintest hint of warmth move across Kian’s face.

“Inside,” he said.

The mansion was magnificent and cold. Marble floors. High ceilings. Oil paintings of stern men in dark suits. Chandeliers glittering like frozen stars.

But there was no laughter in it.

No softness.

No woman’s touch.

Only wealth, power, and silence.

Zayn refused to sleep unless Aurora stayed beside him. He pulled her into a room painted with castles and dragons, climbed under the covers, and clutched her sleeve.

“Sing,” he murmured.

“I don’t know any songs.”

“Make one.”

So Aurora hummed a broken tune with no words, stroking his hair until his breathing evened out.

When she finally stepped into the hallway, Kian was waiting.

“Come with me.”

His study smelled of leather, old books, and whiskey. Behind the desk hung a portrait of an older man whose eyes looked like Kian’s, but crueler.

Kian poured two drinks. Aurora did not touch hers.

“You were sold to Frank Castellano,” he said.

“Who is that?”

“My oldest enemy.”

Aurora’s hands went cold.

Kian sat behind the desk. “Castellano runs trafficking routes through New York, Newark, and the ports. Women. Children. Organs when he can get them. My father fought his father for thirty years. Both died bloody. My brother died because of him.”