THE SHATTERED GLASS AND THE LOCKED DOOR

The sterile white lights of the hospital waiting room buzzed with an irritating hum.

I sat in a hard plastic chair, my knees pulled to my chest, wearing a pair of scrubs a kind nurse had given me to replace my blood-soaked clothes. Elena sat next to me, her head resting on my shoulder, fast asleep.

It had been six hours since they wheeled Dominic into surgery.

Six hours of agonizing silence.

The FBI had come and gone. They took the torn ticket stub, my official statement, and the keys to the locked room on the forty-second floor. With the red ledger and the Vitelli raid executed flawlessly, Marcus Santoro was facing multiple life sentences without the possibility of parole.

The nightmare was over.

But I couldn’t feel relief. Not while the man who had orchestrated it all was fighting for his life on an operating table.

Double doors at the end of the hallway swung open. A surgeon in blue scrubs walked out, pulling off his surgical cap. He looked exhausted.

I stood up so fast the plastic chair scraped violently against the linoleum. Elena jolted awake.

“Family of Dominic Caruso?” the surgeon asked.

“I’m here,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Is he…”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon said, offering a tight, reassuring smile.

My knees gave out. Elena caught my arm, holding me up as a profound, overwhelming wave of relief crashed over me.

“The bullet missed his vital organs by a fraction of an inch,” the surgeon continued. “He lost a massive amount of blood, and it was touch-and-go for a while. But he’s young, he’s strong, and he’s remarkably stubborn. He’s in recovery now.”

“Can I see him?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes.

“He’s heavily sedated. He won’t wake up for a few hours. But yes, you can sit with him.”

The recovery room was dark, save for the steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

Dominic looked terribly fragile. The commanding, terrifying CEO in the charcoal three-piece suit was gone. In his place was a man pale and bruised, an oxygen tube resting beneath his nose.

I pulled a chair to the edge of his bed. I took his large, warm hand in mine, resting my forehead against his knuckles.

“You’re an idiot,” I whispered into the quiet room. “A brave, stupid idiot.”

I sat there for hours. I watched the sun rise through the hospital window, casting a warm golden light over the Chicago skyline. For the first time in eighteen months, the city didn’t feel like a battleground. It felt peaceful.

Around noon, Dominic’s fingers twitched against mine.

I sat up straight.

His gray eyes fluttered open, squinting against the sunlight. He looked confused for a moment. Then, his gaze found my face.

The confusion melted away.

“You’re still here,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and raw.

“Where else would I be?” I asked, a wet laugh escaping my lips. I squeezed his hand. “You have quarterly reports due on Monday. Someone has to remind you to sign them.”

Dominic let out a weak chuckle, which instantly turned into a wince of pain.

“Marcus?” he asked, the protective instinct instantly returning to his eyes.

“In federal custody,” I said softly. “No bail. The Vitelli family is dismantled. It’s over, Dominic. You won.”

Dominic stared at me for a long moment. He slowly turned his hand, interlacing his fingers with mine.

“I didn’t win anything if I lost you in the process,” he said quietly.

He took a deep, shaky breath.

“Diana, I meant what I said in the warehouse. Everything I did—the coldness, the demands, the cruelty—I did it to push you away. Because I knew if Marcus saw how I looked at you, he would use you. But it was cowardly. I broke your heart to save your life, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for that.”

I looked down at our joined hands.

“You threw a crystal glass at the wall yesterday morning,” I reminded him.

“I was terrified,” Dominic admitted, shame coloring his pale cheeks. “I saw Marcus looking at you. I saw him noticing how brilliant you are. I panicked. I had to make a scene. I had to make him believe I despised you so he wouldn’t see you as leverage.”

“It was a very convincing performance,” I said softly.

Dominic’s thumb traced the back of my hand. “I’m done performing, Diana. The firm is clean now. The shadows are gone. But I understand if you can’t stay. I understand if you need to walk away from me after everything I put you through.”

I looked into his gray eyes. They weren’t cold anymore. They were entirely vulnerable, completely at my mercy.

I thought about the man who had terrified me for a year and a half. And then I thought about the man who had stepped out from behind a shipping container, bleeding, to save my life.

I leaned forward, resting my free hand on his cheek.

“You told me I was replaceable,” I whispered, leaning closer until my lips were inches from his.

“I was lying,” he breathed.

“Good.”

I closed the distance, pressing my lips to his.

It wasn’t a hesitant, gentle kiss. It was desperate, fierce, and filled with the weight of eighteen months of repressed emotion. Dominic groaned softly, his hand sliding up to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer despite his injuries.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless.

“So,” Dominic said, a genuine, rakish smile finally touching his lips. “Are you coming back to work on Monday?”

I stood up, smoothing the front of my borrowed scrubs.

“No, Mr. Caruso,” I said, smiling down at him. “I’m not.”

His smile faltered slightly. “You’re not?”

“No. You see, an executive secretary is replaceable.” I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “But a managing partner isn’t. We can discuss my new contract when you’re discharged.”