Page 95 of Crown of Smoke

“I promise.” I’ve learned my lesson. And if all goes well, the Keans’ threat against me and those I love will be a thing of the past shortly.

“I’m going to hold you to it.”

“What about you? No more getting your ass beat up.” I squeeze said ass.

“It was just once and only because they cheated.”

“Promise me.”

He laughs. “I promise not to get my ass kicked again.” He’s not promising not to fight, but I can’t challenge him as he’s now moving and the sensation is too delicious to do anything but feel.

We move together in perfect sync. Is it possible that there’s a single person who is made for you, who understands and respects you no matter what? Loves you warts and all? Fits with you like a perfect puzzle piece? If so, I’ve found my match.

Together we give and get pleasure, reaching higher and higher until the sweetest bliss crashes through us both.

Later, wrapped in his arms with my head on his chest, I listen to his steady heartbeat. The sheets are tangled around us, and moonlight streams through the window, casting shadows across his face.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks softly, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.

"How strange life is," I murmur. "A few months ago, I was just chasing a story. Now I'm in love and pregnant."

He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Are you scared?"

"Yes," I admit. "But not of you. Not anymore." I take his hand and press it against my stomach. "I'm scared of the unknown, of bringing a baby into this complicated world we live in. But when I'm with you, those fears feel manageable."

“I’ll always protect you. And the rest, well, we'll figure it out together."

I believe him. Despite everything—the lies, the violence, the danger—I trust in us. In this connection that sparked from the moment we met, even when we were hiding parts of ourselves from each other.

His arms tighten around me protectively, and I snuggle deeper into his embrace. Whatever challenges lie ahead, whether from the Keans or just the everyday hurdles of building a life together, I know we'll face them united. I can’t wait to get started.

EPILOGUE

Lucy

Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse apartment, casting a warm glow across the hardwood floors. It's hard to believe this is my life now. I’m surrounded by elegant furnishings and a breathtaking view of Boston's skyline. Flint insisted on the best security system money could buy, but he balanced that protection with touches that make it feel like home.

My hand drifts to my swollen belly as I walk past the framed photo from our wedding day six months ago. It was a small, intimate ceremony at my parents’ home in Maine with his brothers and my family, including my sister. Flint insisted our ceremony needed to be out of town as we needed to keep out of Kean’s radar. Plus, it seemed important for my parents and sister to meet him. I swore my sister to secrecy about Flint and how we met. Even she doesn’t know just how deep his ties are to organized crime. I don’t like lying but know it’s for their safety.

What I remember the most about my wedding day was the way Flint looked at me as I walked down the aisle, like I was his entire world. The memory brings a smile to my face as I settle into the window seat, my favorite spot to write.

Living with Flint has shown me sides of him I never expected. He’s still protective, but he’s wonderfully romantic too. He brings me tea every morning or will massage my swollen feet without being asked. The fierce warrior I first met has revealed himself to be an attentive husband and soon-to-be father who sings to my belly each night.

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I still see Ronan Kean's cold smile as he ordered his men to take me to that dark basement room. The memory sends a shiver down my spine, even now. Especially since the recording wasn't the victory I'd imagined. The background noise made it hard to hear. When I played it back for Flint and his brothers, their faces fell. The confession I thought I'd captured wasn’t there. As a result, the Keans remain untouchable, their power in Boston unchallenged. For the last few months, the Keans have held back, letting things settle around Marshall and my little stunt that caused them to circle their wagons. The good news is that they don’t seem to know the Ifrinns are back.

Flint and his brothers haven’t been idle as they bide their time. They’ve built their own ventures, some questionable and others completely legit. They have a gambling app and are involved in cryptocurrency.

The buzz of my phone pulls me from my thoughts. Another congratulatory message about my feature article inThe Atlantic. My first major piece as a freelancer, and it's already generating significant attention. I left the newspaper when I realized that I couldn’t do my job if I was worried about Ronan Kean hunting me down. I did turn in a piece that exposed a great deal of the Keans’ questionable actions, including tying them to Marshall and the suggestion that the Ifrinn fire might not have been an accident, after all.

It was Flint’s idea that I freelance write. I could do it at home, and with the phone and Internet, I could actually do a lot of research.

"You've got fire in your words," he told me. "Don't let anyone dim that."

Opening my laptop, I scan through my upcoming assignments. Two investigative pieces for major outlets and a regular column for a respected online journal. The validation feels sweet. It’s proof that I can succeed on my own terms without compromising my integrity or putting myself in dangerous situations.

The floor creaks behind me, and I turn to see Flint walking in from the kitchen with a silver tray, a knowing smirk on his face. Chocolate-covered strawberries, my latest pregnancy craving, are artfully arranged on fine China.

"Celebrating my brilliant wife's success," he says, setting the tray beside my laptop. "Your piece inTheAtlanticis incredible."

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