A six-year-old girl saved a feared New York mafia boss after he collapsed on a Manhattan sidewalk, while everyone else stood back and watched. Three days later, he tracked the poor child to her sick mother in Queens, and froze when he saw the little girl’s eyes, because they were exactly like his.

Two weeks later, Elena was discharged from Mount Sinai.

Her color was better, the hollows in her cheeks softened by proper nutrition and round-the-clock medical attention. She still tired easily, but the constant, hacking cough that had haunted her apartment in Queens was gone.

Instead of sending her back to that drafty apartment, Marco had handled the logistics.

A sprawling, secluded brownstone in an upscale neighborhood near the Hudson River. High brick walls, wrought-iron security gates, and a private courtyard lined with old oak trees. It looked like a fortress disguised as a family home.

When the town car pulled through the iron gates, Elena stared out the window in disbelief.

"Vince, this... this is too much," she whispered as Marco opened the car door for her. "I can't live in a place like this. It's a palace."

"It's safe," I said, stepping out after her and offering my hand. She hesitated for a second before taking it. Her palm was warm, surprisingly soft.

Lily bounded out of the back seat, her eyes wide as she stared at the sprawling garden and the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard.

"Is this our castle?" Lily asked, looking up at me with those gray-green eyes that mirrored my own.

I knelt down, brushing a stray blonde curl from her forehead. For the first time in my life, I felt a smile reach my eyes—a real, unforced smile.

"Yes, princess," I said softly. "This is our castle."

Inside, the house was filled with sunlight streaming through tall bay windows. A private chef was already unpacking groceries in the oversized kitchen, and a team of medical assistants had set up a monitoring room in the adjacent suite for Elena's ongoing recovery.

That evening, after Lily had fallen asleep in a bedroom with pale blue walls and a bookshelf already overflowing with fairy tales, Elena and I sat out on the back terrace.

The Manhattan skyline glittered across the river like a field of scattered diamonds.

"I don't know how to do this, Vince," Elena said quietly, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders as a cool river breeze drifted in. "Being here. Being part of your world again. After all these years..."

"You aren't part of my world," I said, leaning against the stone balustrade. "My world is staying outside these gates. In here... in here, it's just us."

She looked at me, her dark eyes searching my face. "You think Salvatore is going to let it go?"

"No," I admitted candidly. "Men like Salvatore don't let things go. They wait. They look for an angle."

"Then why did you bring us here? Why risk everything?"

I turned to face her, the city lights painting her silhouette against the dark water of the river.

"Because three weeks ago, on Fifty-Third Street, I realized something," I said softly. "I spent twenty years building an empire out of fear, money, and concrete. And when I hit that pavement, none of it mattered. Nobody cared. Except for a little girl in a yellow dress who stopped to help a dying stranger."

I took a step closer, my hand gently resting on her arm.

"She saved my life, Elena. And the moment I saw her eyes, I realized I hadn't been living at all. I was just keeping score."

Elena's breath hitched. She reached up, her trembling fingers gently touching the side of my face, right over the scar near my temple.