You look hurt… do you need a hug?” the maid’s six-year-old daughter asked me—the most feared mafia boss in New York—

The third-floor corridor was illuminated by soft wall sconces as we walked toward the white oak door at the end of the hall.

Isabella walked beside me, her arm wrapped around my waist, her head resting against my shoulder as I carried Lily.

I stopped outside the door.

The hand-carved wooden sign that had read Clara Moretti had been removed during the afternoon. In its place hung a new, freshly carved silver plate bearing a single word:

LILY.

Lily reached out her small hand and traced the letters on the silver plate. "That's my name!"

"It is," I smiled, pushing the door open.

The room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of a small nightlight shaped like a sleeping moon.

The hand-carved white crib had been replaced by a beautiful, low wooden canopy bed draped in soft white linen and pink silk blankets. The shelves were filled with dozens of new books, stuffed bears of every size, and on the small velvet bench near the window sat six new pairs of tiny shoes—ranging from size six toddler to size ten primary.

Lily gasped, her small hands flying to her mouth as I set her down onto the soft wool rug.

She ran across the room, her small feet silent on the carpet, and threw her arms around a massive brown teddy bear that was almost as tall as she was.

"He's giant!" she squealed, burying her face in the bear's soft fur.

Isabella stepped into the center of the room, looking around at the quiet luxury, the warmth, and the absolute safety that filled every corner of the space.

"Alessandro..." she whispered, her voice choking with emotion. "You did all this today?"

"Franco's men work fast when they have proper motivation," I said, walking up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest.

She leaned back into my embrace, her hands reaching up to cover mine where they rested over her ribs.

"For seven years," she murmured, watching Lily play with the bears on the floor, "I lay awake every night in that apartment listening to the sirens on the avenue, wondering if I would ever be able to give her a life where she didn't have to be afraid."

"No one will ever make her afraid again," I swore into her hair, smelling the sweet scent of jasmine and fresh rain on her skin. "And no one will ever make you hide in the dark again, Isabella."

She turned around inside my arms, looking up into my face. Her eyes were filled with a deep, fierce devotion that matched the fire burning in my own chest.

"I loved you when you were a bleeding stranger in my kitchen eight years ago," she whispered, her fingers tracing the sharp line of my jawline. "I loved you when I was sitting in that basement in Queens holding your daughter in my arms. And I love you tonight, Alessandro Moretti."

I leaned down, my lips finding hers in a deep, desperate kiss that tasted of seven years of lost time, of rain, of tears, and of a future that no force in this city could ever take from us again.

Lily looked up from her bears, holding a miniature silver rattle in her hand.

"Are you guys kissing?" she asked, her brow furrowing in that cute, serious expression she had inherited from me.

I pulled back from Isabella, laughing—a real, rich sound that filled the room—and dropped to my knees beside my daughter.

"We are," I said, pulling both Isabella and Lily into my lap, wrapping my large arms around both of them until we were a single, unbroken circle in the center of the warm room.