The guard’s voice was barely a rasp, but in the silent, vaulted corridor, it sounded like a glass vase shattering on marble.

Six months later.

The sun was rising over the ocean, casting a brilliant golden light across the private terrace of the rebuilt Moretti estate. The bloodstains were gone, replaced by fresh flowers and soft music playing from the patio speakers.

Clara sat in a white sun lounger, drinking fresh orange juice, her health fully restored. Her laughter echoed in the warm morning breeze as she watched Dominic down on the grass below.

The fear that had shadowed our lives for three years was completely erased.

Down on the lawn, the feared Godfather of the coast—a man whose name made international crime bosses tremble—was currently down on his hands and knees in a tailored white shirt, playing tea party with a three-year-old girl.

“More tea, Mr. Daddy?” I asked, holding up a tiny plastic teapot.

Dominic picked up a fragile plastic teacup with his massive, scarred hand, sticking out his pinky finger with absolute seriousness.

“Why, thank you, Lady Lily,” Dominic said, pretending to take a tiny sip. “This is the finest tea in all of Italy.”

Clara walked down the terrace steps, wrapping her arms around Dominic’s neck from behind and kissing his cheek. “You’re terrible at pretending to drink tea, Dominic.”

He turned his head, pulling her down into a deep, tender kiss. “I don't need to pretend anymore,” he whispered against her lips. “I have everything I ever wanted right here.”