The question hung in the sterilized air of the hospital suite like a drawn knife.

The summer warmth had returned to New York City. The blood, the fires, and the war that had threatened to tear the East Coast apart had finally settled into a peaceful, unbroken silence.

The Bellini syndicate was gone, its assets liquidated and absorbed into the Moretti Foundation—a charitable organization created to fund pediatric trauma centers across the country.

I stood on the private terrace of the Moretti estate in Westchester, looking out over the rolling green hills and the glittering waters of the Hudson River.

My burns had healed into faded silver scars, and my ribs were fully recovered. I wore a tailored dark suit, no longer needing the cane to walk.

Behind me, the sliding glass doors opened.

Grace Bennett stepped out onto the terrace. She wore an elegant blue summer dress, her brown hair falling softly over her shoulders, her eyes bright and rested. She was no longer a hospital nurse; she was now the Chief Medical Officer of the St. Jude Pediatric Trauma Wing.

“He finally fell asleep,” Grace said with a gentle smile, walking over to stand beside me at the stone railing.

“Did he ask for the cross again?” I asked, sliding my arm around her waist, pulling her close to my side.

“He keeps it under his pillow,” Grace murmured, resting her head against my shoulder. “He told me today that he wants to learn how to drive the boat when he turns seven.”

I let out a soft laugh—a sound that hadn't escaped my lips in seven long years.

“He's a Moretti,” I said softly. “He’ll be driving the boat before he turns seven.”

Down on the manicured lawn below, Matteo was sitting on a bench, patiently showing Lucas how to assemble a wooden model airplane. The six-year-old was laughing, his dark curls bouncing in the breeze, his gray eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated joy.

I looked down at my son, then looked at the woman standing beside me.

The war was over. The lies had been burned away. The empire was standing—not built on fear, blood, and fake alliances, but built on the unbroken bond of a family that had survived the fire.

Grace turned her head, looking up into my eyes. “What happens now, Dominic?”

I leaned down, pressing my lips gently against hers, tasting the warmth and sweetness of a future we had fought through hell to claim.