THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE TOLD ME TO SEAT HIS SEVENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD FORMER HOUSEKEEPER IN THE KITCHEN—BUT WHEN I BROUGHT HER TO THE ENGAGEMENT TABLE, LUCA MORETTI STOOD UP AND CALLED HER “MAMA ROSA.”

By 5:30 AM, our black SUV rolled into the subterranean ambulance bay of Northwestern Memorial Hospital in downtown Chicago.

While Marco’s strike teams moved south toward the industrial corridors of Gary to seal the private airstrip, Luca had insisted on making one critical stop before the commission tribunal convened.

The private neurological pavilion on the ninth floor was dead silent, illuminated by soft amber nightlights and the gentle hum of medical monitors.

Dr. Robert Chen, a world-renowned neurosurgeon in pristine surgical scrubs, was waiting at the nurses’ station when Luca and I stepped out of the private elevator.

Dr. Chen bowed his head respectfully to Luca.

“Mr. Moretti. The transport from the suburban clinic went smoothly. Your father’s trust cleared the wire transfers at midnight.”

“How is he, Robert?” Luca asked.

“Remarkable,” Dr. Chen smiled, gesturing down the quiet corridor toward Room 912. “The previous facility was heavily over-medicating him with cheap sedatives to manage bed capacity. We flushed his system, stabilized his electrolytes, and administered high-dose neuro-regenerative therapy. He woke up two hours ago, fully coherent.”

My knees gave out.

Luca caught me by the elbow with gentle, effortless strength, steadying me as a wave of overwhelming emotion rushed through my veins.

I walked toward Room 912 with trembling legs.

I pushed the door open.

Lying in an adjustable orthopedic bed beneath a clean white linen duvet was my father, David Reed.

His gray hair was neatly combed, his skin had lost that sickly, yellow pallor of neglect, and his pale blue eyes—the kind, resilient eyes that had raised me after my mother died—were open, clear, and bright.

“Emma?” his voice was hoarse, but steady.

“Dad!”

I threw myself across the bed, burying my face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

All the months of terror, all the late-night shifts scrubbing blood and spilled wine from marble floors, all the humiliating insults from Vanessa Bellini—every ounce of pain dissolved into that single, glorious embrace.

My father wrapped his arms around me, his calloused hands stroking my hair.

“I’m here, baby. I’m right here. Don't cry.”

“You’re awake, Dad... you’re really awake,” I wept, kissing his weathered cheek over and over.

“A nice doctor told me that a very important gentleman paid for my care,” my father whispered, looking over my shoulder toward the doorway.

Standing in the threshold, his broad frame silhouetted against the hall light, was Luca Moretti.

He had washed the soot and blood from his face, changed into a clean black cashmere coat, and stood with his hands resting respectfully in his pockets.

My father looked at Luca, studying the sharp, aristocratic lines of his jaw and the quiet, commanding presence that filled the room.

“Are you the man who saved my life?” my father asked.

Luca walked forward, stopping beside the bed. He reached out and took my father’s weathered hand, giving it a firm, respectful squeeze.

“Your daughter saved my life first, Mr. Reed,” Luca said softly. “She walked into a room full of wolves, looked the most dangerous people in this city in the eye, and told the truth. You raised an extraordinary woman.”

My father looked at Luca, then looked at me, a proud, knowing smile touching his lips.

“She gets that from her mother,” my father murmured. “Take care of her, son.”

“With my life, sir,” Luca vowed.

Luca turned to me, his dark eyes glowing with a quiet urgency.

“Emma. Dr. Chen has two armed guards stationed at this door. Your father is safe. But the sun is rising over the lake.”

He tapped the leather satchel resting on the side table.

“The commission elders are waiting at the Board of Trade.”

I stood up, kissed my father’s forehead once more, and took Luca’s hand.