At exactly 9:17 on the night of her sixth birthday, Ava Moretti took one sip of lemonade, looked up at her father, and whispered, “Daddy, it tastes bitter.”

Ten years later, the Bellamy House incident was nothing more than a distant urban legend whispered among restaurant staff across downtown Chicago—a cautionary tale about never underestimating the quiet waitresses who notice the small details.

Inside the grand library of the Moretti estate, a sixteen-year-old Ava Moretti sat at the mahogany desk, carefully drafting her college application essays for law school. Her future was bright, secure, and entirely of her own choosing.

Downstairs in the sunlit kitchen, Mara Moretti poured two tall glasses of fresh lemonade, dropping a pink-and-white striped straw into one and a matching one into the other.

Dante walked into the kitchen, his dark hair now touched with distinguished silver at the temples, though his frame remained as commanding and powerful as ever. He wrapped his arms around Mara’s waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and fresh citrus.

“Is that for me?” Dante asked, nodding toward the second glass.

“It is,” Mara smiled, turning around in his embrace to hand him the glass.

Dante took a sip, smiling warmly into her eyes.