THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE FIRED ME IN FRONT OF FORTY-EIGHT GUESTS WHEN I REFUSED TO SAY HIS DEAD BROTHER’S WIDOW WAS DRUNK—BUT THE ROOM CHANGED WHEN LUCA’S TEN-YEAR-OLD NEPHEW STOOD UP AND SAID, “MY MOM DIDN’T DRINK ANYTHING. VANESSA DID.”

The forty-eight guests from the night before were long gone, having been dismissed into the rainy night under strict non-disclosure orders enforced by Luca’s most senior commanders.

The mansion was silent, save for the crackle of logs in the marble fireplace.

Chloe sat on the plush sofa, wrapped in a warm wool blanket, sipping hot chocolate that the kitchen staff had prepared.

Rachel sat beside her, holding Ben close to her side.

The blue flight jacket lay neatly folded on the coffee table between them.

Luca walked into the room carrying a silver tray.

He didn't ask a maid to bring it.

He carried it himself.

On the tray were four fresh cups of coffee, a plate of warm croissants, and a glass of orange juice for Ben.

He set the tray down on the table, pulled a leather ottoman opposite us, and sat down.

“Ben,” Luca said gently.

The boy looked up from his mother’s shoulder.

“Yes, Uncle Luca?”

Luca reached out, placing his large, scarred hand over Ben’s small fingers.

“You saved this family last night. Do you know that?”

Ben looked down, his lower lip trembling slightly.

“I just remembered what Dad said.”

“What did your dad tell you?” Luca asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“He said… if someone ever tries to make Mom cry, I have to be the man of the house,” Ben whispered. “And he said that truth is like a lighthouse. Even in the biggest storm, it doesn't move.”

Rachel let out a choked sob, pulling Ben into her chest and kissing the top of his head.

Luca smiled, a genuine, warm smile that completely transformed his rugged, intimidating face.

“Your father was right,” Luca said. “And thanks to you, he’s finally resting in peace.”

Luca turned toward me.

I was still wearing my black uniform trousers, though I had replaced my torn shirt with a clean navy crewneck sweater one of the housekeepers had lent me.

“Emma,” Luca said.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“Stop calling me Mr. Moretti. It’s Luca.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy cream-colored envelope, sliding it across the table toward me.

“What is this?” I asked hesitantly.

“It’s the deed to the property on Elm Street in Green Bay,” Luca explained calmly. “The restaurant your late uncle used to own—the one your family had to sell to pay for your sister’s tuition.”

My heart stopped.

I stared at the envelope as if it were made of spun gold.

“Luca… no… I can't accept that. That's worth hundreds of thousands of dollars!”

“Your sister was dragged out of this house because of my blind spot,” Luca said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You stood up in front of forty-eight powerful people and refused to humiliate a grieving widow, even though you thought it would cost you your rent money. That kind of integrity cannot be bought with money, Emma. But it can be honored.”

Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over my lashes.

Chloe let out a gasp of joy, throwing her arms around my neck.

“Emma! We can go home! We can reopen Uncle Joe’s diner!”

Rachel smiled warmly at me, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.

“You earned it, Emma. Michael would have wanted this. He hated bullies more than anything in this world.”

I looked at Luca, my chest aching with an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude.

“Thank you, Luca. Truly.”

Before Luca could reply, Antonio stepped into the salon, holding a secure satellite phone.

“Boss,” Antonio said. “Federal Prosecutor Vance is on line one. They just raided the Bellini compounds in Queens and Brooklyn. They have Salvatore, Gino, and four city councilmen in federal custody.”