I stepped past the door frame, my leather shoes clicking softly against the linoleum floor.

Two weeks later, the spring sun finally broke through the Chicago clouds, washing the city in a warm, golden light that melted the last stubborn patches of winter snow.

Keo was back in his private VIP suite at Northwestern Memorial, but this time, the monitors were quiet, humming a steady, peaceful tune. The latest round of immunotherapy had worked better than the specialists had dared to hope; the rogue cancer cells were in full remission, color had returned to his cheeks, and he was currently sitting up in bed, engrossed in a brand-new, hardcover collection of Captain Galaxy comics.

I stood by the doorway of the hospital room, watching quietly from the shadows, hands buried deep in my pockets.

Linda sat beside the bed, peeling an orange for her son, laughing at something he had just pointed out in the comic book. She looked healthier, too—the dark circles beneath her eyes were gone, replaced by a radiant, unshakeable strength.

She turned her head and spotted me standing in the doorway.

She set the orange slice down, whispered something to Keo, and walked out into the quiet hallway, pulling the door closed behind her so she wouldn't disturb him.

“Mr. Gallo,” she said, stopping a few feet from me.

“How is he?” I asked, my voice returning to its usual guarded, gravelly cadence.

“The doctor says if his counts hold steady for another month, we can talk about discharging him to a real home,” she smiled softly, her eyes shining with unshed tears of pure gratitude. “No more hospitals. No more sterile rooms. Just... a normal life.”

“Good,” I said.

“You didn't have to come today,” she said, stepping a little closer. “You’ve already done more than anyone could ever ask or imagine. You took down Maroni, you destroyed Vance, and you paid for every single doctor, nurse, and pill.”

“I told you before, Linda,” I replied, looking down at her with a steady, unblinking gaze. “I protect what’s mine.”

She reached out, and for the first time in the six months I had known her, she didn't cower, she didn't apologize, and she didn't ask for permission. She simply reached up and placed her hand over mine—a warm, firm touch that bypassed every defensive wall I had spent decades building around my heart.

“You’re not a monster, Salvatore,” she whispered, using my first name for the very first time. “No matter how hard you pretend to be one.”

I didn't pull my hand away. I let it rest there beneath hers, feeling the steady, living pulse of a woman who had taught a Chicago syndicate boss the most dangerous lesson of all: that true power isn't about dominion over others. It's about having something worth dying for.

“The study is still a mess on Tuesdays, Linda,” I said quietly, a faint, rare ghost of a smile touching the corners of my mouth. “My desk needs dusting.”