“Who would ever love a woman that fat?”

“Emily.”

It wasn't a question. It was the sound of a man holding his breath through a firing squad.

“Did you do it?” Emily asked, her voice steady in the quiet apartment hallway.

“Did I do what?” Vincent’s voice was cautious, tired.

“Did you have Tyler arrested?”

A short pause on the line. “He tried to flee the country with embezzled funds from his startup investors. My security team simply flagged his passport for federal authorities as a public service.”

Despite everything, a small, disbelieving laugh escaped Emily’s lips. “You’re ruthless, Vincent DeLuca.”

“I told you,” he replied quietly. “Only to people who try to hurt you.”

“Where are you?”

“My office.”

“Are you drinking scotch?”

Another pause. “...Bourbon.”

“Put it down,” Emily said. “I’m taking a cab. Don't you dare leave that office before I get there.”

The line went silent for a heartbeat, and then Vincent’s breath hitched—a sound so human and raw it betrayed every ounce of his formidable armor.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said.

Forty minutes later, the elevator doors of the top-floor penthouse office opened directly into Vincent’s private workspace.

The room was vast, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline of Chicago under a blanket of stars. A single desk sat in the center, papers neatly stacked, a crystal glass of amber liquid sitting untouched near the corner.

Vincent stood by the glass, his jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. When he heard her footsteps, he turned around slowly.

He looked tired. The sharp, intimidating aura of the mob boss was gone, replaced by a man bracing himself for the verdict of the only person in the world who mattered to him.

Emily walked across the Persian rug until she stood three feet away from him.

She didn't yell. She didn't cry. She simply reached out, took the heavy crystal glass of bourbon from his hand, and set it down on a nearby table.

“My mother told me something today,” Emily said softly.

Vincent’s gaze locked onto hers, his breath shallow. “What did she say?”

“She said that people aren't just one thing. And that love isn't math.” Emily looked up into his gray eyes, letting all the walls she had built over five agonizing years finally crumble into dust. “She said you don't balance accounts to decide who is worthy of your heart.”

Vincent took a slow, disbelieving step forward. “Emily... are you saying...?”

“I’m saying I know who you are, Vincent,” she interrupted, her voice firm, carrying the absolute weight of her own agency. “I know about your past. I know about the syndicate, the warehouses, the guilt that brought you to my bakery every Tuesday and Thursday. I know you aren't a saint.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, his hand coming up to gently cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair. “I’m a sinner, Emily. I’ve done things I can never undo.”

“Neither am I,” she replied, leaning into his palm, closing her eyes for a brief second to savor the warmth of his skin. “I’m stubborn, I’m broken in places, and I carry enough baggage to sink a ship. But I am choosing this. I am choosing you.”

Vincent’s chest heaved. The last barrier around his heart—built over decades of violence, betrayal, and isolation—shattered completely.

He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck, holding her with a fierce, desperate strength as if he had finally found land after drowning in a stormy sea.