The silence in Bellavita wasn't the quiet of a resting room; it was the suffocating stillness of a loaded gun.

The cleanup of the West Wing was surgical. Within twenty minutes, the bullet holes were patched with temporary composite boards, the blood was scrubbed from the Italian linoleum, and Marcone’s body—along with his surviving enforcers—had vanished into the humid Chicago night without a single police report ever recording their names.

My mother was settled back into a heavily reinforced medical suite on the opposite side of the estate, sleeping soundly under the influence of a mild sedative prescribed by a doctor who asked zero questions.

I stood on the stone balcony of my bedroom, watching the dark, churning waves of Lake Michigan crash against the sea wall below. The crisp night air tasted of rain and electricity.

Footsteps approached behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy, measured cadence belonged to Dominic.

“She’s asleep,” Dominic said quietly, stepping out onto the balcony. He had changed into a fresh black shirt, the sleeves still rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. “The guards on her floor have been doubled. No one gets in without my thumbprint.”

“You killed him,” I said, my voice steady, though a tremor lingered in my chest. “Sal Marcone was one of the commissioners. Killing him means a war with the New York families, doesn’t it?”

Dominic leaned against the stone railing beside me, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon where the faint glow of the Chicago skyline pierced the clouds.

“There is no war coming, Elena, because there is no one left in New York with the stomach to challenge me,” Dominic replied, his voice flat and absolute. “Marcone thought he was playing chess. He didn't realize the board belonged to me before he even sat down. The Outfit’s assets are already being frozen, and their captains are currently swearing fealty or packing their bags for Buenos Aires.”

I turned to look at him. The fierce, terrifying syndicate boss was right here beside me, yet all I could think about was the gentle way he had held his newborn son earlier that evening.

“You’re a monster, Dominic Moretti,” I whispered, the words lacking any real bite.

Dominic turned his head, a faint, humorless smile touching the corner of his lips. “Takes one to recognize one. You threw a heavy brass wine bucket at a professional hitman without blinking. You walked into a room with a gun to your mother’s head and offered yourself as trade. You aren’t a simple waitress anymore, Elena. You crossed the line the moment you saved Lorenzo.”

Before I could process his words, a soft cry echoed from the baby monitor sitting on the table inside my bedroom.

Dominic pushed off the railing. “I’ll get him.”

I followed him into the room. Lorenzo was awake, kicking his tiny legs in the air, his face flushed pink as he searched for comfort. Dominic scooped him up with a practiced, fluid ease that still surprised me, resting the infant against his broad chest and gently patting his back in the exact rhythm I had taught him hours ago.

The baby instantly quieted, letting out a soft sigh and burying his face into Dominic's shirt.

Watching them, a sudden realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The ghosts of my past—the sterile hospital room, the flatline monitor, the suffocating grief of losing my own son—didn't hurt quite as sharply as they had yesterday.