A powerful mob boss returned after three years expecting his sickly bride to be dead, only to find her running his estate.

Roman turned his head slowly toward the double mahogany doors that led to the west sitting room.

The doors were pulled halfway open, revealing a room illuminated by the deep, amber glow of a massive stone fireplace. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. On the soft plush carpet before the fire, two young children were sprawled out, playing with a set of hand-carved wooden train tracks.

A little girl, roughly three years old, with bright blue eyes and soft blonde curls that mirrored Evelyn's, was laughing as she pushed a red wooden engine across a bridge. Beside her sat a young boy, around four years old, with dark hair and a serious, focused expression, holding a wooden coal car.

The golden retriever lay beside them, its tail wagging lazily whenever the little girl patted its back.

Roman stood frozen in the doorway of the entrance hall, his eyes locking onto the children.

His mind raced, performing rapid, chaotic arithmetic. Three years. He had been gone for thirty-six months.

A dark, cold knot formed in his chest—a sudden, unbidden surge of possessive fury that caught him completely off guard. He had left Evelyn alone. He had assumed she was dying. But if she had taken a lover—if she had brought another man into his family estate, used his name, and raised another man's children beneath his roof—

Roman turned around slowly, his face darkening into a mask of pure, lethal authority. He took three long strides back toward Evelyn’s desk.

"Evelyn," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and quiet that Martha immediately accelerated her pace down the hallway, discreetly removing herself from the room.

Evelyn didn't flinch. She set her pen down once more, leaning back against her leather chair.

"Whose children are they?" Roman demanded.

The question hung in the warm, fragrant air of the hall, heavy and dangerous.

Evelyn looked up at him. For a split second, her calm, dry expression changed. A shadow of something deep, complex, and fiercely protective flickered across her blue eyes—a flash of iron that rivaled Roman’s own cold nature.

She didn't answer him.

Instead, she raised her hand and made a gentle snapping sound with her fingers toward the sitting room doorway.

The little girl in the pink sweater immediately looked up from her wooden trains. She stood up on her small feet, brushed off her dress, and padded softly across the Persian rug toward the desk. She paid no attention to the tall, dark-suited man in the overcoat; she walked straight up to Evelyn, leaning her little head against Evelyn’s knee and wrapping her tiny arms around her waist.

Evelyn reached down, her slender fingers gently smoothing the little girl's blonde curls, her face softening into a look of absolute, unconditional love.

"Go back to the fire, Clara," Evelyn whispered gently, her voice thick with tenderness. "Ask Caleb if he can bring in two more logs for the stove."

The little girl nodded obediently, gave Evelyn's knee a final squeeze, turned on her heel, and skipped back toward the sitting room, completely oblivious to the lethal tension filling the hall.

Evelyn watched her go until the child was safely back on the rug beside the fireplace.