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ANDI

T he city had spoken, and it had roared.

From the marble steps of City Hall to the dive bars in Logan Square, the energy cracked through Chicago like lightning over the lake—furious, electric, unstoppable. Headlines screamed across every screen:

DONATO EXPOSES CORRUPTION IN CITY HALL. WEXLER CAMPAIGN COLLAPSES UNDER FRAUD SCANDAL. FAULKNER IN FEDERAL CUSTODY AFTER FAILED ESCAPE ATTEMPT.

By the time the footage hit cable news—Mitch tackling Faulkner to the pavement, the briefcase flying open, cash spilling across the sidewalk like a scene from a movie—Andi had already taken the stage again, eyes clear, voice steady, spine straight. Not as the woman who’d been hunted, but as the woman who had survived the hunt and dragged them into the light.

Cerberus ran point on the media drop. Coop and Maya coordinated with federal prosecutors for a simultaneous statement. By dusk, the flash drive contents were everywhere—emails, wire transfers, photographs, burner logs. The entire rot of Wexler’s network stripped bare for the public to see.

Andi watched it all from her loft dressed in her favorite sweater and leggings, the lake and city laid out beneath her like a prize she hadn’t asked for—but had damn well earned.

She didn’t flinch at the footage. Not when Wexler was shoved into the back of an unmarked vehicle. Not when Faulkner was walked into federal court in handcuffs. Not when talking heads flipped from skepticism to reverence in the space of a single news cycle.

She merely curled up in Mitch’s arms, sipping her coffee, and watched a chapter close.

She didn't say ‘I told you so.’ Didn't gloat.

What she felt wasn’t vindication. It was something heavier, quieter. Not the high of a win—but the weight of one. Every face she remembered from the past year—Lacey, Maya, her staff, the people in Jefferson Park, the mothers at the community forums, the kids who’d chanted her name—she carried them all. She had fought for them. Bled for them.

Now she was walking out of the fire, still standing.

Election day arrived cold and dry—sunlight sharp and biting. She’d voted just after dawn, wrapped in a scarf Mitch had thrown around her neck like he couldn’t help himself. The polling station was quiet. No fanfare. Just a slow nod from an elderly volunteer who’d clearly already seen the headlines.

No one asked for a picture. No one interrupted. Everyone knew this wasn’t a photo op.

That night, the campaign headquarters was packed wall-to-wall. Maya had tapped Royce Sanders to manage the floor and handle security. Reporters clustered behind the velvet rope like hungry sharks.

Andi waited in a private room on the second floor, alone but not really. She could feel the pulse of the crowd below like a drum line in her bones. The tension. The possibility. The power.

Mitch stood in the doorway, dressed in black again—button-down shirt rolled to his forearms, watch glinting in the overhead light. He had said little all day. He didn’t have to. He was there. Watching. Holding the line like always.

“You look nervous,” he said quietly.

“I’m not.” She turned to face him, then amended, “Not about the numbers.”

He nodded once. “Good. Because you’re going to win.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the truth matters. Even when people try to bury it.” He paused, then added, “Because they saw you bleed, and you didn’t hide it. You turned around and said, ‘Watch me keep going.’ And they did.”

Andi looked at him. Really looked. He wasn’t just her bodyguard anymore. He hadn’t been for quite some time.

Before she could tell him again what she felt—before she could decide whether the words would come out as a promise or a confession—Maya burst through the door.

“It’s time,” she said, breathless, glowing.

Andi stepped forward. She looked back at him. She knew how she felt; knew how he felt. But he’d only said it that once. She supposed she might have to teach him how to.

Mitch didn’t stop her. He didn’t offer to go first. He just trailed behind—a steady presence just outside the reach of the cameras. A shadow, a guardian, a man who had stood through the worst and was still standing now.

She walked through the crowd as the first wave of numbers hit the screen behind her.

Donato: 68%.

The room erupted. Applause. Chants. Screams. People hugging, crying, laughing. Maya grabbed her hand. Andi stepped up to the podium and raised both palms to quiet them.

She stood tall. Shoulders back. No notes… just truth.

“I was never supposed to win,” she said, and the crowd fell silent. “I was supposed to be erased. Silenced. Rewritten. But the thing about women like me—the thing about people like us—is that we’ve never waited for permission to fight. We’ve had to shout just to be heard. We’ve had to bleed just to prove we’re alive.”

Her voice cracked—not with emotion, but force.

“You’ve seen my bruises. You’ve read the headlines. You know the truth. And still—you showed up. You voted. You believed.”

She scanned the crowd. Eyes sharp. Then lifted her chin.

“So now I’m not just your councilwoman. I’m your next mayor.”

The place exploded in a deafening roar, sending shockwaves of approval and joy through the entire building.

Mitch watched from the side of the stage, arms folded, his expression unreadable. But she saw it—beneath the stoicism, beneath the discipline—pride. Not just in what she’d done. Pride in her.

When the speech ended and the crowd surged forward, she didn’t push toward the cameras.

She walked straight to him.

And when she reached Mitch Langdon—warrior, protector, anchor—she didn’t say thank you. She didn’t ask what came next. She rocked up onto her tip-toes and kissed him—not on the cheek and not in a grateful protectee way—but full on, lover-to-lover.

* * *

Late that night—or was it early the next morning—the loft felt like home. Andi was glad she would not be forced to give it up to live in some official residence. It wasn’t the curated, photo-ready version of it that had existed during the campaign—when every pillow had to be in place and every book spine carefully curated for accidental Instagram backgrounds. No, this was the real thing. Laughter clung to the walls. Pizza boxes were stacked high on the counter. Someone—probably Maya—had uncorked two bottles of overpriced champagne, and someone else, definitely Nick, was using one of the empty ones as a dumbbell.

Andi leaned against the kitchen island, still barefoot from ditching her heels thirty seconds after walking in. Her hair was a mess, her eyeliner had half-melted off under the stage lights, and there was a grease stain from a mozzarella stick on the sleeve of her jacket. She’d never felt better in her life.

Across the room, Maya was deep in conversation with Coop and Reyna, all three of them holding beers and looking like people who’d walked through fire together and come out not only standing—but laughing.

Cerberus agents were notoriously hard to win over. Andi knew that. But tonight, they weren’t acting like they’d been hired to keep her alive. They were acting like a part of her campaign. Of this. Of the strange, impossible, beautiful family she’d built out of ambition, trauma, and grit.

Mitch was quieter. He always was, in the aftermath. He moved through the space like he was still on duty, nodding at his team, checking lines of sight. She saw him by the windows, watching the shadows outside even though the perimeter had been cleared six hours ago. He wasn’t paranoid. Just wired different.

It wasn’t until the last slice had been eaten and the last beer opened that people started to peel away.

Reyna hugged her without warning. Nick just nodded, a faint smile on his lips. Coop clapped her on the shoulder, murmuring, “You earned this. Every second of it. Congrats.”

Damon, Miley’s husband, said, “Chicago’s future has never looked brighter.”

Andi hugged Maya last, holding on a few seconds longer than necessary. Maya didn’t let go either.

“You did it,” Maya said into her ear.

“We did it,” Andi corrected.

“Nope. It was you. You’re the one who stood on stage. Don’t forget that.”

And then they were gone. The door clicked shut. The loft went quiet.

She turned slowly, expecting Mitch to still be by the windows, but he wasn’t.

He was in the bedroom—packing. Her heart stuttered.

She stood in the doorway, watching as he slipped a handgun into a side pouch of his duffel, followed by a Cerberus-coded comm unit. His gear was half-zipped, his boots beside the bag. No weapon drawn. No edge to his posture. Just quiet efficiency.

Andi cleared her throat. He turned, but didn’t look startled. He must’ve heard her coming.

“You’re packed,” she said.

Mitch nodded once. “Didn’t want to get in the way.”

The ache hit low in her chest. “Are you leaving?”

His hands stilled. Then he straightened slowly, eyes meeting hers across the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

“Not unless you tell me to.”

Six little words. Flat. Steady. Terrifying in their simplicity. Because there was no push behind them. No seduction. No plea. Just a line in the sand—and an open door if she wanted it.

Andi stepped into the room, removed her clothes, and then sank gracefully to her knees.

“You’re not in the way, Master,” she said quietly.

Mitch didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she whispered. “We’re not finished. Not politically. Not personally. And this?” Her eyes swept around the bedroom. “This is mine. You’re mine.”

A flicker of something dangerous lit in his eyes. Not anger. Something deeper. Older.

“You sure?” he asked.

Andi nodded and knelt on the soft rug in the center of her bedroom, the warm glow of the city curling through the windows behind her. The open space was quiet, hushed, intimate. Mitch stood a few feet away, still half in shadow, his gaze locked on her like she was something sacred.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She just lifted her chin and held his eyes, waiting.

He moved slowly, deliberately—his hands going to the hem of his shirt, dragging the fabric up over the hard lines of his torso. The muscles she’d mapped with her fingers a hundred times flexed as he pulled it off and dropped it to the floor. His jeans followed, unhurried, until he stood in front of her, bare and unashamed.

Her breath caught.

He was already hard—thick, flushed, heavy with want—and when he stepped closer, she tilted her face up to meet him, lips parted.

“Open,” he said, voice low, firm.

She did.

He slid his cock past her lips with slow, controlled intent, one hand curling into her hair as her mouth wrapped around him. She moaned softly at the first taste—salt and heat and him—her tongue moving instinctively, reverently.

He didn’t thrust. Not yet. He just held her there, still and open, his fingers stroking her scalp, his cock resting heavy on her tongue.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured. “On your knees. Mouth full. Mine.”

Heat bloomed low in her belly. Her hands came to rest on his thighs, steadying herself as she gave in completely to the rhythm he set. And when he finally moved—deep, slow, unrelenting—it wasn’t just pleasure. It was worship.

She continued to pleasure him until he pulled back. “That’s enough,” he said. “I want to come in that sweet, tight pussy of yours.”

Andi arched up an eyebrow. “It’s your pussy.”

Mitch grinned. “You’re right. It’s mine.”

“Damn straight.” Andi rose from her knees and then stood on her toes and kissed him—slow, deep, sure.

His hands came up, cupping her jaw, his thumbs brushing the hollow just beneath her cheekbones. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Everything they hadn’t said in front of the crowd—every brush of loyalty, every vow of protection, every broken piece of them rebuilt in silence—it all lived in this moment.

Andi exhaled, resting her forehead against his.

“This city doesn’t know it yet,” she whispered, “but it’s ours now.”

Mitch’s voice was rough. “It always was.”

She laughed once—quiet and surprised. “You going to be okay not being the guy with a gun in his hand every minute?”

His mouth curved slightly. “I’ll still carry. Just maybe not for work. Fitz is looking forward to a lucrative contract from the city ensuring the new mayor’s safety.”

“That’s good,” she said, lips brushing his. “Because I’m still going to piss people off. You’ll probably need it.”

Mitch’s smile deepened. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Outside, the city pulsed. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but she knew who’d be there when it came. And for now, that was enough.

The loft was different now. Not because of the victory, or the champagne stains on the rug, or the way the skyline looked softer through the windows—like even the city had finally exhaled. It was different because Mitch hadn’t packed again. She watched him, taking in his calm, measured stillness that always set her nerves on fire.

She crossed the room, crawled up on the bed, stretching out invitingly. It wasn’t just lust, it was something else. Something that felt like peace. Like permanence. He crossed the room without a word. Slow. Deliberate. When he stopped beside the bed, her body lit up before he even touched her.

“Mitch,” she whispered.

His eyes were dark, heavy with something deeper than hunger. Worship. That’s what it felt like.

“I love you,” he said, low and soft.

No teasing. No flourish.

Andi let the statement hang there for a moment. “I love you too.” She lay back—naked, open, completely his.

He traced one hand up her thigh. Slow, reverent. Like she was something sacred, not someone who’d survived a war of her own making.

“You’re mine,” he said, almost to himself.

Andi didn’t argue. Didn’t even speak. Just nodded once, her breath catching as his hand moved higher.

He took his time.

No ropes tonight. No cuffs. No harsh orders barked in the dark. Tonight wasn’t about submission—it was about surrender.

Andi felt it in the way he kissed her collarbone. The way he trailed his mouth down the slope of her breast, over her ribs, pausing at every mark he’d left before—each bruise, each bite, each invisible brand.

When his tongue found her clit, she cried out, soft and sharp, one arm flung over her eyes. But he pulled it gently away.

“Prop yourself up on your elbows. Eyes on me,” he murmured. “Tonight, I want you watching.”

So she did. She watched as he kissed her thighs like they were the finest silk. As he licked into her slowly, teasing her open with soft circles and deep, luxurious strokes that made her body arch off the bed.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t push. Just gave.

Again and again.

Andi came with a moan she couldn’t hold back, her fingers curled in the sheets, her body thrumming with so much heat it felt like light.

But he didn’t stop.

He kissed her through it, coaxed her higher, dragged her back down until her second orgasm made her thighs shake.

Only then did he rise above her, eyes locked on hers.

She reached for him. He caught her hand. Twined their fingers together.

And when he pushed inside her, it wasn’t hard or fast or punishing. It was deep. Full. Worshipful.

Andi gasped, her hips rising to meet his, the stretch delicious and slow. He moved like he had all night, all year, all damn eternity to remind her what it meant to be his.

“You feel like home,” she whispered.

He kissed her temple. Her jaw. Her mouth.

And then he gave her everything, pounding into her with a relentless rhythm that wouldn’t be denied. When she shattered again, it wasn’t with a scream—it was with a sigh and a prayer and his name on her lips like a promise.

Afterward, he didn’t leave the bed. He wrapped himself around her, one hand at her waist, the other tangled in her hair. They stayed like that until the sun crept over the skyline and bled gold across the floorboards.

Andi stirred first. She looked at the man who had guarded her body, broken down her armor, and then handed her the world.

“You staying?” she asked again, knowing the answer.

Mitch kissed her shoulder. “Unless you tell me to leave,” he replied with a grin.

She smiled into the pillow. “Good. I’ve got a pretty big office to fill, and I could use a security detail who doesn’t flinch when I get bossy.”

He hummed low. “You’re always bossy.”

She turned in his arms, locking eyes with him.

“But you’re always in charge when the door closes.”

Mitch grinned. “Damn right.”