Damian opened the door to the house in Westchester and stood back while Aria stepped into the foyer. It had been strange to drive up the long path leading to the house with Aria by his side. The last time he’d been home, she’d been in Greece. He hadn’t been sure this moment would ever come, and he had to resist the urge to feel like he’d somehow cheated fate.

Aria was his fate. Bringing her home was the fulfillment of their destiny.

He followed her into the house and turned on the chandelier that lit the entry, its crystals casting thousands of luminescent teardrops on the walls.

Damian set their bags down and leaned against the wall while she surveyed the marble floors, the soaring ceilings, the curved staircase and thick mahogany balustrade leading to the second floor.

Cole had met them at the airport, but Damian had been waiting for this moment for a long time. He wanted it to be private. Wanted to remember the moment when Aria first stepped into the home where they would build their future together.

“It’s so beautiful,” Aria said, turning to him. “You grew up here?”

He nodded. “I should warn you that it still needs some work. My mother and I stayed in the city most of the time after my father died.”

He didn’t have to tell her that the memories had been too much for them to bear here. That he had been slowly exorcising them from the house as he sanded and stripped wallpaper and repaired windows and stained wood.

Somehow he knew she understood.

She stood before him, wrapped her hands around his neck, kissed him tenderly on the lips. “We’ll finish the work together.”

He nodded. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. “I want to see the house.”

He smiled. “Now?”

They’d cleaned up in Paris and left immediately for New York. He’d wanted to stay the night, to give Aria time to rest after what had happened in Marchand’s cyber lab, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’d insisted she was fine, and the fire in her eyes hadn’t left any room for argument. They’d headed straight for the airport after profusely thanking Christophe and Charlotte and promising to return once everything was settled in New York.

She kissed him again and stepped away. “I think I should see it if it’s going to be my home, don’t you?”

The words sent a thrill of possession through him. A thrill of belonging.

He was going to make her his wife when this was all over. He was going to make her his wife and they were going to fill this dark, old house with light and the laughter of their children.

He couldn’t remember who had said you can’t go home again, but they’d been wrong.

He could. He would.

And he would do it with Aria by his side.

He took her hand. “Come on then,” he said. “We can’t have you getting lost on your way to the kitchen.”

He led her through the front parlor, its Art Deco mural still intact, and down the long hall. He showed her the study he’d renovated first, remembering all the nights he’d spent on the leather sofa when Aria had been missing, all the drinks he’d poured from the bar to try and forget long enough to sleep.

They continued to the cavernous kitchen, the original soapstone counters still intact. The windows that looked out over the fields that led to the woods were dark but he knew she’d be thrilled with the view in the morning. He showed her the giant mud room and laundry room where there had once been four washers and dryers to handle all the linens required for all the entertaining his parents — and his grandparents — had done back when large gatherings were still held in family estates like this one.

They were preparing to leave the kitchen when she hesitated at the door to the cellar. “What’s this?”

He had a flash of the shooting range, the home gym lined with weapons he’d used to train when he’d been planning Aria’s rescue.

“A basement with a shooting range,” he admitted. “And a gym.” He took her hand. “I want to show you the greenhouse.”

He didn’t want to show her sad or violent things. He wanted her to see only the best of the house, only the best of him, the best of the life they would have together.

“I’ll see the greenhouse tomorrow when the sun comes up,” she said, opening the door. “Show me the basement.”

He wanted to argue but he knew there would be no point. Something resolute had crept into her voice since the attack on the cyber lab in Paris. She was on a mission, and she wouldn’t be deterred.

It worried him — but it was also sexy as hell.

He turned on the light and led her down the stairs. They emerged onto the polished floor of the home gym and Aria crossed the room, pausing to touch the sheathed knives and other weaponry lined up on the shelving next to the wall.

He smiled as she gave the heavy bag a little punch, her eyes straying to the cuts in the bag and the sand that had collected on the floor.

“This is no ordinary basement, Damian Cavallo.”

He shrugged.

“Show me the shooting range,” she said.

He pushed off the wall and led the way down another hall, turning on the lights as he went.

“What’s that?” she asked when they passed the old wood door.

“It’s a tunnel,” he said.

“Planning an escape?” she asked, her voice teasing.

“It was installed during Prohibition to ferry alcohol into the house,” he said. “Lots of these old estates have them.”

“And it’s intact?”

He heard the surprise in her voice.

“It is.”

He didn’t tell her the rest: that he’d had it reinforced when he’d first started his business, that it had always been a backup plan in the unlikely event of an unrecoverable assault on the estate.

“Where does it lead?” she asked.

“To the old carriage house in the back.” He opened the door to the shooting range and turned on the lights, watching them gradually illuminate the two lanes.

“Wow…” She entered the room, her gaze traveling down the long rows with targets at the end. “I’ve never been to a shooting range, but this is exactly what I would have pictured — just not in a basement.”

“We’re a half hour away from the nearest public range,” he said. “It makes sense to save the travel time by doing target practice here.”

It was one of the only ways I could forget. One of the only things that soothed my thirst for blood while you were gone. One of the only things I could do to pass the time that didn’t involve drinking myself to death.

He left the words unsaid. It didn’t matter now. She was here.

She walked to the wall lined with metal shelving. Firearms were cleaned and put away, ready for the next time Damian would use them. With any luck, it would be awhile. He would finish the business with Fiore and Anastos and bring New York back under the Syndicate’s control. After that he would spend more time walking the grounds with Aira and less time in the gym plotting the death of their enemies, more time watching her in the greenhouse and less time at the firing range.

“Are they loaded?” she asked, her eyes still on the weapons.

He chuckled. “No. Its not protocol to shelve loaded weapons.”

“Is it hard to load them?” she asked.

“Not once you learn,” he said.

She hesitated, turning to face him. He knew from the determination on her face that he wouldn’t like what she said next.

“Teach me.”