The heavy doors of the study closed behind them with a muffled click. Lorenzo did not summon his men. He did not call Marco, his second-in-command, nor did he reach for the encrypted phone in his pocket that could mobilize forty armed soldiers within ten minutes.

By evening, the Duca estate looked like a war zone, but the war was over.

The local police—deeply in Lorenzo’s pocket—arrived not to investigate, but to haul away the bodies of the rogue mercenaries and the traitor Marco under the official classification of a "botched domestic terror raid." The corrupted elements within the regional syndicate were systematically purged before the sun set, their assets frozen, their leaders silenced permanently.

In the private family dining room on the second floor, the air smelled of roasting meat and fresh bread.

Isabella sat at the head of the long oak table, her hair washed and brushed, wearing a simple silk dress that Lorenzo had kept in her old wardrobe, untouched for six years. She was feeding small pieces of chicken to a massive, bandaged black mastiff resting his heavy head in her lap. Bruno had survived the shootout with a minor graze and a bandaged ear, acting once again as the fierce, loyal guardian of the house.

Across from her sat little Emma and her mother, Marta, still in a state of dazed disbelief as they looked at the spread of food fit for royalty.

Lorenzo walked into the room, a glass of aged whiskey in his hand, his shoulder tightly bandaged beneath a fresh black shirt. He stopped behind Isabella’s chair, resting his hand gently on her shoulder. She leaned her head back against his chest, closing her eyes with a soft, shuddering sigh of pure relief.

"To new beginnings," Lorenzo said, raising his glass.