“THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME CLEAR HIS SEAFOOD PLATTERS WITH MY HAIR COVERING A SWOLLEN JAW—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, ‘SHE HIT HER FACE ON THE DUMBWAITER,’ BEFORE HE COULD EVEN SPEAK TO ME.”

Two weeks later, on a crisp, sunlit Saturday afternoon, Marcus and I brought Dr. Vance to the historic cemetery overlooking the harbor in the North End.

The cemetery was quiet, peaceful, and bathed in golden winter light that filtered through the ancient oak trees.

We walked down a secluded gravel path until we reached a beautiful, shaded plot near the water’s edge.

Standing beneath a towering granite cross was the headstone of Thomas Frost:

Thomas Frost (1942–2018) — Master Rigger, A Sovereign of the Water.

Fresh bouquets of white calla lilies, red roses, and fragrant sweet basil rested at the base of the stone.

Marcus knelt beside my grandfather’s headstone, resting his hand on the carved granite.

“We kept your granddaughter safe, Thomas,” Marcus murmured, his voice thick with deep, resonant emotion. “The family is whole. And the harbor is clean.”

I knelt beside him, gently running my fingers over the engraved letters of my grandfather’s name.

“Grandpa,” I whispered through my tears. “You don't have to worry anymore. I’m safe. I’m finally home.”

Dr. Vance knelt beside us, resting his hand over mine on the cool stone, his eyes bright with peaceful tears.

Marcus reached over, his large, warm hand closing over mine and Dr. Vance's joined fingers.

He looked into my eyes, all the dangerous authority of the syndicate sovereign dissolving into the vulnerable, unshakable devotion of a man who had found his true partner.

“My brother used to say that an empire is not measured by the ships in the harbor,” Marcus said softly, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet cemetery. “It is measured by the people you can protect without asking for anything in return.”

He reached into his pocket and produced an antique velvet jeweler’s box lined with white silk.