he first sound that terrified me wasn’t a gunshot. It was laughter. Bright, uncontrollable, childish laughter spilling through the spotless marble kitchen of Dominic Moretti—the most feared man in Boston. And when I saw who was laughing, my stomach dropped. Dominic’s six-year-old son, Leo, stood barefoot in a puddle of soapy water, his expensive shirt soaked through, his dark hair dripping over his forehead.

The aftermath of that night was swift and brutal.

The intruder had been sent by the Falcone family—a rival syndicate trying to force Dominic into a shipping corridor concession by using his son as leverage. By sunrise, the Falcone leadership had vanished from Boston, eradicated by Dominic’s ruthless retaliation.

The mansion was placed under absolute lockdown, but inside the master wing, something miraculous had taken root.

Dominic refused to let Lily and me return to the small staff quarters. He moved us directly into the luxurious suite next to his own master bedroom. When I protested that I was merely an employee, he had silenced me with a look that left no room for debate.

"You bled for my son, Isabella," he had said softly, his fingers lingering on my bandaged temple. "You are not an employee in this house anymore. Never again."

Two days after the attack, the sun broke through the clouds, bathing the estate's private terrace in golden warmth.

Lily and Leo were sitting on a large picnic blanket on the lawn, happily painting watercolors. Leo was laughing—loud, clear, and uninhibited—helping Lily paint a bright yellow sun with messy brushstrokes.

Dominic walked out onto the terrace holding two glasses of lemonade. He wore a simple white linen shirt, looking more relaxed than I had ever seen him. He handed me a glass and sat down beside me on the stone bench.

"He called you Mama this morning," Dominic said quietly, looking out at the children.

My breath caught. "Dominic, I told him—"

"I don't mind," Dominic interrupted, turning to face me. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently wrapping around mine. "In fact... I want him to."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What are you saying?"

"For three years, this house was a tomb," Dominic whispered, his dark eyes intense, filled with an emotion he no longer tried to hide. "I was a dead man walking through empty rooms, waiting for someone to end it. Then you walked into my kitchen with your daughter. You brought laughter back into Leo’s life. You brought life back into mine."

He lifted my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles gently.

"Stay with me, Isabella. Not as a housekeeper. Not as a nanny. Be the mistress of this house. Be my family."

Tears blurred my vision. The fear, the trauma, the poverty, and the loneliness of the past four years seemed to evaporate into the morning sun. I looked at the man before me—no longer the cold monster of Boston, but a man who loved fiercely, loyally, and without condition.

"Yes," I breathed, leaning into him. "Yes, Dominic."