"The Miami mob boss’s fiancée slapped the nanny in front of his 3-year-old son—unaware the child’s late mother left a secret note."

Noah was fast asleep in his bedroom, guarded by two loyal security operators stationed outside his door.

I stood near the stone balustrade wearing a dark linen shirt, holding a glass of scotch, looking out at the sparkling lights of the Miami skyline reflecting off the dark, calm water.

Footsteps sounded softly on the stone patio behind me.

Grace walked out into the moonlight wearing a simple cream silk dress I had bought for her last Christmas. Her hair hung softly over her shoulders, her face radiant under the starlight, though the small purple bruise on her cheek remained visible.

She stopped beside me, leaning her elbows against the stone balustrade, looking out at the bay.

"Your mother left for her estate in Palm Beach," Grace said softly.

"I know," I replied, setting my glass down on the stone ledge. "She won't be returning to Star Island."

Grace turned her head, looking at my profile—taking in my sharp jawline, the subtle silver strands near my temples, and the deep, unshakeable strength that held my world together.

"Did you mean what you said to her, Dante?" Grace asked softly. Her hazel eyes were wide, clear, and held zero fear. "About Claire's note? About... marrying me?"

I turned to face her fully.

I didn't hesitate. I stepped close, taking both of her warm, soft hands into my broad, calloused palms, holding them against my chest right over my beating heart.

"I have spent three years telling myself a lie, Grace," I confessed, my baritone dropping into a low, velvet cadence. "I told myself I kept you here because Noah needed a mother. I told myself I brought you flowers because you worked hard. I told myself I stayed home on Tuesday nights because I was tired of business."

Grace held her breath, her fingers tightening around mine.

"The truth is," I whispered, reaching up with my right hand to gently frame her cheek, my thumb tenderly stroking the soft skin near her bruise, "I kept you here because I fell in love with you the second you looked at my crying four-month-old son and told him he was allowed to be sad."

Tears welling in Grace's hazel eyes spilled over her lashes, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight.

"I fell in love with you, Dante," Grace wept softly, a radiant, beautiful smile touching her lips, "the night you stumbled around the kitchen barefoot because your three-year-old son told you that sad people need to dance."

I pulled her into my arms.

It was not a quick, hesitant touch. It was a fierce, deep, consuming embrace that erased three years of lingering shadows, grief, and fear. I brought my lips down onto hers in a slow, sweet, possessive kiss that sealed our promise under the warm Miami stars.

Grace let out a quiet, happy sigh against my mouth, her arms wrapping tightly around my neck, burying her fingers in my hair as she pulled herself flush against my solid frame.