The rooftop garden’s lights twinkled like distant stars, the Chicago skyline a glittering backdrop to the charged silence between Sayrn Sauns and Daniel Isiah. Sayrn’s heart still raced from their near-kiss, the brush of his knee against hers sending lingering sparks through her body. At twenty-eight, fresh from nursing school graduation this year, she was used to controlling chaos in the ER—steady hands, quick decisions. But with Daniel, thirty-five and the architect of a mafia empire built over four years in Chicago’s shadows, control felt like a fragile illusion.
He watched her now, his blue eyes dark with unspoken desire, the wine glass forgotten in his hand. “It’s getting late,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges. “I don’t want you going home alone at this hour. Stay the
