The weight of the crown doesn't lift once the guests begin to filter out into the cool Chicago twilight; it simply solidifies.
By nine o'clock, the high-society crowd has dissolved back into the city, leaving behind empty crystal flutes, the lingering scent of expensive perfume, and the profound, echoing silence of the foundry. The massive brick ovens have settled into a low, deep thrum, casting long, amber shadows across the polished concrete floor.
I stand by the expansive glass windows facing the water, watching the dark waves of Lake Michigan lap against the concrete pylons of the pier. The city lights dance across the black surface like scattered diamonds.
"The southern transport permits just hit your desk," Leo’s voice cuts through the quiet from the edge of the mezzanine stairs. He holds a tablet in one hand, his expression entirely focused. "Vance didn't wait for morning. The digital stamps are already cleared. The docks are entirely yours, Donna."
"Thank you, Leo," I say, turning back to look at him.
He nods—a sharp, respectful gesture—before stepping back out through the rear exit to coordinate the night-shift security detail.
Before the heavy metal doors can fully click shut, a pair of large, warm hands slide around my waist from behind. Dante pulls me back against his chest, his massive frame instantly blocking out the chill of the glass. He has discarded his tuxedo jacket, his white shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the heavy sinew of his forearms.
"You're looking at the water again," his deep baritone rumbles against my ear, his hot breath sending a familiar, electric shiver straight down my spine.
"I'm just realizing how big it is," I whisper, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "From 4th Street, the city felt like a labyrinth. From here, it just feels like an open map."
"It is an open map," Dante murmurs, his hands sliding down to grip my hips, turning me slowly in his embrace until I am forced to look up into the predatory warmth of his amber eyes. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches as his jaw hardens into a rigid, handsome line. "And we drew the borders."
He reaches out, his thumb catching my chin and tilting my face upward, his gaze tracking the line of my throat before locking onto my eyes with a fierce, unchecked satisfaction.
"The Lucchesi family sent a second wire an hour ago," he says softly, his voice dropping into that dark, razor-sharp purr that completely commands my reality. "An additional ten percent tribute to ensure their shipping lanes stay open through the winter. They aren't testing the perimeter anymore, Gianna. They are begging to stay inside it."
He lifts my left hand between us, his calloused fingers tracing the heavy diamond band that catches the dim light of the dying ovens.
"I told you once that a Marchetti always pays his debts," Dante whispers, his eyes burning down into mine with a heavy, possessive intensity that leaves me breathless. "Your father gave me a ledger, but you gave me an empire, little baker. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life ensuring no one ever touches what belongs to me."
He doesn't wait for me to answer. He catches my lips in a deep, slow, and utterly dominant kiss that tastes of sweet victory and dangerous forever, lifting me effortlessly against the edge of the marble pastry slab while the city sleeps quietly under our rule.