Simone Drake paused as six-year-old Jude looked helpfully at her

The transition from a servant to an honored guest was a jarring, surreal experience for Vera. The guest suite Callan had given her was larger than her entire childhood apartment. The wardrobe was filled with elegant, soft clothes—cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, and tailored trousers that fit her perfectly. She felt overwhelmingly exposed without the armor of her black and white uniform, yet the physical comfort was undeniable.

For three days, the mansion remained on high alert. The tension was a living thing, breathing down the necks of the armed guards in the hallways. Callan was rarely seen during the day; he spent hours locked in his study, shouting over encrypted phone lines and coordinating his capos. The Drake syndicate had already struck back, halting all of Callan’s shipments at the docks and firebombing one of his underground casinos.

Despite the chaos, Vera’s days were surprisingly peaceful, spent entirely with Jude. They built pillow forts in the grand library, read books by the fire, and painted pictures at the massive mahogany dining table. Jude was blissfully ignorant of the violence outside the heavily fortified gates, perfectly content simply because his "Mommy" was no longer being scolded or rushed away to clean.

On the fourth evening, the heavy oak doors of the library swung open. Vera jumped, clutching a children’s book to her chest. Callan walked in, looking devastatingly exhausted. His tie was gone, the top three buttons of his shirt undone, and a fresh cut marred his sharp jawline.

"Papa!" Jude yelled, dropping his crayons and sprinting across the room.

Callan caught the boy seamlessly, hoisting him into the air despite the weariness in his bones. He held Jude tightly for a long moment, burying his face in his son’s soft hair. Vera watched them, her heart aching at the profound love the ruthless mafia boss had for his child.

"Are you hurt?" Vera asked softly, setting the book down and approaching him. Her eyes darted to the cut on his jaw.

Callan set Jude down and patted his shoulder. "Go show your guards the drawing you made, buddy. I need a minute with Vera."

Once Jude was out of earshot, Callan sank heavily into one of the leather armchairs by the fire. He rubbed a hand over his face, his signet ring catching the firelight. "Elias Drake called for a sit-down. Tomorrow night. Neutral ground."

Vera knelt beside his chair, entirely forgetting the boundaries that used to separate them. She reached out, her bandaged left hand gently hovering over his bruised jaw. "Is it a trap?"

"Almost certainly," Callan replied, looking down at her. He didn't pull away from her touch; instead, he leaned his face into her palm, letting out a heavy sigh. "But I have to go. If I refuse, I look weak to the other families. I need to look Elias in the eye and tell him the engagement is over, permanently."

"He will want something in return," Vera whispered, her thumb instinctively stroking the short, rough stubble on his cheek. "Blood. Or money."

"He will want you," Callan said, his dark eyes locking onto hers, burning with a dangerous fire. "Simone knows how much you mean to Jude. And she suspects how much you are beginning to mean to me. They will demand I hand you over to make amends."