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“I know. But I want to take care of you.”

“You are taking care of me. This is taking care of me.”

So I would give her what she needed, moving slowly, reverently, my hands mapping the changes in her body. The fullness of her breasts. The curve of her belly. The way her hips had widened slightly, making space for our child. Afterward, we would lie tangled together, her back pressed against my chest, my hand resting on her stomach.

“I love you,” I would whisper into her hair.

“I love you too.”

And I would feel something close to complete. This was what I had been searching for my entire life without knowing it. Not power. Not respect. Not the approval of men who would never truly see me.

Just this.

Just her. Just the quiet certainty that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

But underneath it all, there was tension. A shadow that I couldn’t quite shake, no matter how hard I tried. Because I knew this couldn’t last. I knew that eventually the world I had left behind would come calling. That Giovanni would need me. That he would demand my presence. That the life I had built in the darkness would reach out and drag me back.

I tried not to think about it. Tried to stay present, to live in each moment as it came. But late at night, when Madigan was asleep beside me, I would lie awake and stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of borrowed time pressing down on my chest.

This was a pocket of peace carved out of chaos.

A sanctuary that existed only because I had made a deal with the Devil himself.

And deals like that always came due.

I couldn’t fully relax, no matter how much I wanted to. Couldn’t let my guard down completely. Because I knew that the moment I did, the moment I allowed myself to believe this could be permanent, everything would come crashing down.

So I stayed vigilant.

Kept my phone charged, even though I rarely used it. Checked in with Sinclair once a week, feeding him information about shipments and meetings that Giovanni shared with me during our brief, carefully orchestrated calls. Maintained the fiction that I was back in Nevada, still working for the family, still the loyal soldier Giovanni believed me to be.

It was exhausting.

Living two lives. Being two people. The man I was here with Madigan, and the man I had to be when I spoke to my family. But it was necessary. Because the alternative was losing her. Losing our child. Losing this fragile, beautiful thing we had built together.

One morning, about three months into our time in Montana, I woke to find Madigan standing at the window, her hand resting on her belly, staring out at the mountains.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked, coming up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist. She leaned back against me, her head resting on my shoulder.

“How long we can stay here.”

Her words hung in the air between us, heavy with everything we weren’t saying.

“As long as we need to,” I said, though we both knew it was a lie.

“Salvatore.” She turned in my arms, her eyes searching mine. “What happens when they call you back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you go?”

The question cut through me like a blade.

Would I go? Could I leave her here, alone and pregnant, while I returned to my family to play my part in the family business? Could I walk away from this peace, this sanctuary, and step back into the violence that had defined my entire life?

“I don’t want to,” I said honestly. “But I might not have a choice.”

She nodded, her expression sad but understanding. “I know.”