If I leave, will Mommy get to stay?” the three-year-old asked me

The ride back to the Romano estate was quiet, save for the soft, steady breathing of Lily, who had fallen fast asleep in the back of the limousine, her head resting comfortably in my lap, one small hand clutching Poppy the rabbit while the other held my index finger.

Clara sat across from us, staring out the tinted window, her face a mix of exhaustion and profound, disbelieving relief.

When we pulled through the iron gates, the estate looked different. The cold stone manor no longer felt like a tomb. For the first time since my family had been slaughtered, it felt like a sanctuary.

I carried Lily upstairs myself, ignoring Marco’s offer to help, and tucked her into her bed in the newly expanded nursery suite I had already ordered the decorators to build off the side of my own master quarters.

Clara stood by the doorway, watching me carefully tuck the heavy wool blankets around her daughter.

“Mr. Romano,” Clara began softly. “You didn't have to bring us back. We would have survived in Philadelphia.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” I said, standing up and turning to face her. My voice was steady now, reclaimed by the iron discipline that had kept me alive, but softened by something new. Something permanent. “And neither would I. You and Lily are not leaving this house, Clara. Your brother works off his debt at the docks, but you and your daughter remain here. Under my protection. Under my roof.”

Clara bowed her head, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Romano.”

“Call me Alessandro,” I corrected, walking past her into the hallway.

From that day forward, the underworld whispered about the softening of the Romano syndicate. My capos noticed that I no longer executed traitors on the spot; instead, I gave them exile or hard labor, much to their confusion. The rivals in the five families thought I was losing my edge, growing old and sentimental.