At thirty-two, I was the youngest mafia boss Chicago had ever feared—and somehow, I was dying in a mansion packed with the best doctors money could buy

Elena froze, her fingers tightening around the stack of fresh linens until her knuckles turned white. The quiet luxury of the master bedroom felt suffocating, weighed down by the silent hostility radiating from Vanessa.

“Yes, Mr. Vance,” Elena answered, her voice barely a whisper. “She is asleep in the staff quarters downstairs. I didn’t think she would disturb anyone.”

“She never disturbs anyone,” I said, shifting against the pillows. Every movement sent a fresh wave of needles through my joints, but I forced myself to hold my ground. “Bring her up here.”

Vanessa’s expression hardened instantly, the polite mask slipping just enough to reveal sharp annoyance. “Dante, really? It is past midnight. The child has no business in the master suite, especially while you are contagious or whatever mysterious ailment you are suffering from. The doctors need quiet.”

“The doctors are baffled, Vanessa,” I replied, my eyes fixed entirely on Elena. “And I want to see the girl. Bring her up, Elena.”

With a hesitant nod, Elena hurried out of the room, closing the heavy oak door softly behind her.

Vanessa stepped closer to the bed, her perfume—a sharp, expensive scent of white orchids—cutting through the sterile smell of medicine. She reached out to adjust my collar, her touch feather-light and practiced. “You’re letting your fever affect your judgment, darling. A stray shelter kid wandering around our home? What will the board say? What will my father think when he hears about this eccentric distraction?”

“Your father is currently trying to buy three shipping docks on the South Branch that belong to me,” I reminded her softly, catching her wrist before she could pull away. Her skin was warm, vibrant, and infuriatingly healthy. “Let’s not pretend his opinion keeps me awake at night.”

She pulled her hand back, her lips thinning into a straight, dangerous line. “You haven't been sleeping at all, Dante. That's the real problem.”

Ten minutes later, the door creaked open again. Elena stepped back inside, gently guiding a sleepy-eyed little girl by the hand. Lily wore an oversized cotton t-shirt that hung down to her knees, rubbing her eyes with the back of her small hand. She looked around the cavernous room with wide, cautious eyes, taking in the crystal chandeliers, the medical equipment, and the towering man propped up in the king-sized bed.

When her gaze finally landed on me, she didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head exactly the way I did when evaluating an unfavorable ledger.

“Hi,” Lily mumbled, her voice possessing the same low, husky timbre that Elena had.

“Come closer, kiddo,” I said, gesturing to the edge of the bed.

Lily looked up at her mother for permission. Elena gave a small, nervous nod, guiding her forward. As the little girl approached, the portable heater near the window hummed loudly, but a sudden draft seemed to sweep through the room, making my teeth ache.

I reached out a trembling hand. Lily didn’t hesitate; she stepped right up to the mattress and placed her small, warm palm against my icy fingers.

The contrast was staggering. Her skin burned with the pure, untainted heat of a healthy child, while mine felt like frozen iron. As our hands met, a strange, electric jolt traveled up my arm—not painful, but startlingly vivid, like a spark jumping across a dark room.

Lily gasped softly, her eyes widening. “Your hands are freezing, mister. Are you made of snow?”

A rare, genuine smile touched my lips, the first I had managed in months. “Something like that, Lily. Winter came early for me this year.”

“That’s enough playacting,” Vanessa said sharply, stepping between the bed and the child. Her voice was laced with undisguised venom as she looked down at Elena. “Take the brat back downstairs. Mr. Vance needs rest, not a medical hazard tracking dirt onto the Persian rugs.”

“She didn't track anything, Miss Vale,” Elena said, her voice rising with sudden, protective steel. Despite her fear of Vanessa and the power the Vale family held in Chicago, a mother’s instinct outweighed her terror. “I wiped her shoes at the door.”

“You dare talk back to me?” Vanessa stepped forward, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “In this house, I—”

“Enough,” I commanded. The single word carried the remnants of the authority that made grown men in the Chicago underworld sweat. The room fell dead silent. I didn’t take my eyes off Vanessa. “She stays. And you, Vanessa, should check on the kitchen staff. I believe the evening tea service is late.”

Vanessa stared at me, sheer disbelief and outrage warring on her face. For three years, she had positioned herself as the undisputed queen of my empire, the woman immune to my cold detachment. But tonight, looking at the little girl holding my hand, something in her composure fractured.

“You’re making a massive mistake, Dante,” she whispered, turning sharply on her heel and marching toward the door. She pulled it open with enough force to rattle the frame and slammed it behind her.

As the heavy lock clicked, Dr. Harris cleared his throat awkwardly from the corner. “Well… I suppose I should check the vitals monitor again.”