*THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO SEND THE WOMAN WHO’D COOKED FOR HIS FAMILY FOR THIRTY YEARS HOME BEFORE THEIR ENGAGEMENT DINNER—BUT WHEN I CARRIED HER OLD RED SAUCE POT INTO THE DINING ROOM, LUCA MORETTI STOOD UP AND SAID, “WHY DOES MY MOTHER’S KITCHEN SMELL LIKE THIS?”**

Parked beside the massive green commercial dumpster was a municipal sanitation truck, its amber hazard lights flashing rhythmically against the brick walls of the mansion. Two sanitation workers in high-visibility vests were standing near the hydraulic lift, smoking a quick cigarette before finishing their route.

"Hey!" I called out, jogging across the asphalt.

The two workers turned, looking surprised.

"Hold on! Don't empty that dumpster yet!" I gasped, catching my breath.

"Lady, we're on a schedule," the older worker said, tossing his cigarette butt into a puddle. "If we don't clear this bay by eight-thirty, dispatch yells our ears off."

"I need to look inside," I said, already climbing onto the concrete loading lip of the dumpster. "An antique child's chair was thrown out by mistake. Small wooden chair, painted blue."

The younger worker scratched his head, grinning. "Oh, the little blue stool? Yeah, some blonde lady in a gold dress marched it out here fifteen minutes ago and tossed it right on top of the cardboard boxes."

My heart leaped. "Is it still there?"

"Right on top," the worker said, gesturing toward the side of the open bay.

I reached inside, ignoring the grime and the smell of discarded lobster shells and champagne bottles, and pulled out the small wooden chair.

It was unmistakably old. The blue paint was chipped and worn down around the edges where small hands had gripped it decades ago. The joints were slightly loose, and someone—probably Paul, with a pocketknife—had carved the initials L.M. into the bottom of the seat.

As I cradled the little chair against my chest like a precious artifact, the heavy service door behind me swung open again.

I turned to see Paul Bennett walking slowly across the yard.

The elderly gardener wore a faded flannel shirt, worn denim overalls, and a canvas cap pulled low over his forehead. His face was deeply weathered from fifty years of working under the Chicago sun, and his hands were gnarled and calloused. He looked defeated, like a man who had just been told his entire life’s work meant nothing.

"Emma," Paul said softly, stopping a few feet away. "Is... is Mr. Moretti still angry?"

I walked over to him, holding out the little blue chair.

Paul stopped breathing. He stared at the chipped paint, his watery blue eyes suddenly shining in the amber glow of the sanitation truck's lights.

"I found it right on top," I whispered. "Luca sent me out here."

Paul reached out with a trembling, calloused hand and brushed his thumb gently across the carved initials on the bottom of the seat. A thick, wet sob caught in his throat, and the old man bowed his head, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

"She told me I was trespassing," Paul murmured, his voice cracking. "After thirty-five years of planting the roses his mother loved... she told me to get off the property before she called the cops."

"She’s gone, Paul," I said gently, laying a hand on his flannel-clad shoulder. "Or she's about to be. Luca isn't letting this go."

Before Paul could answer, the heavy metal door swung open wider, and Luca stepped out into the night air.

He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his face was etched with a cold, exhausted fury.

He stopped when he saw us standing by the dumpster. His eyes moved from my face down to the little blue chair in my hands, and finally settled on the old gardener.

Paul instantly straightened up, wiping his eyes with the back of his rough sleeve, trying to regain his dignity. "Mr. Moretti... I’m sorry for causing a ruckus on your engagement night. I was just trying to return what belonged here."

Luca didn't say a word. He walked slowly across the asphalt, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the pavement.

When he reached Paul, he didn't offer a handshake. Instead, Luca wrapped his arms around the old gardener in a fierce, unhesitating embrace.