From the second-floor window of my study, I watched Emma Rossi kneel beside my daughter’s wheelchair beneath the dead maple tree.

The ballroom erupted into a symphony of controlled violence and precise action.

Before Vance’s mercenaries could adjust their aim, Luca and the federal marshals opened fire with non-lethal heavy suppression rounds, dropping the gunmen one by one before they could even discharge a single round.

Vance’s gun was knocked violently from his hand as a heavy tactical boot—belonging to one of my loyal capos—swept his legs out from under him. He crashed hard onto the marble floor, gasping for air as federal agents swarmed over him, snapping titanium zip-ties around his wrists.

Marco tried to crawl toward the service exit, dragging himself frantically across the spilled champagne and shattered crystal, weeping like a broken child.

“Please... Dante... spare me! We were brothers!” Marco shrieked, his voice cracking as he looked up at me.

I walked down the steps, my leather shoes clicking methodically against the floor, stopping just inches from where he groveled. I looked down at the man who had traded his loyalty for silver, the man who had condemned my daughter to a wheelchair and my wife to the shadows.

“Brothers don't sell their family to corporate ghouls,” I said quietly.

I didn't raise a weapon. I simply signaled to two of my capos. “Take him to the shipping yards in Queens. Let him reflect on what happens when empires fall.”

Marco screamed as they dragged him out through the shattered oak doors, his cries fading into the cold night air as the sirens of federal police units began wailing in the distance, converging on the estate to clean up the wreckage.

In the center of the grand ballroom, the chaos slowly subsided into a profound, breathless silence.

The guests stood paralyzed against the walls, watching in awe as the ghosts of the Moretti family stepped back into the light.

I turned away from the door and walked toward the grand staircase.

There, standing tall, independent, and radiant under the crystal chandeliers, was Isabella. Her mother was kneeling before her, hands resting gently on her shoulders, tears streaming freely down both of their faces.

Sophia stood a few paces away, wiping her eyes with her apron, while little Emma smiled brightly, clutching her wooden basin of herbs as if she had just finished a game of tag in the garden.

I knelt beside my daughter, wrapping my arms around both Elena and Isabella, pulling them into an embrace so tight it felt as though I was trying to fuse our very souls together to make up for three lost years in the dark.

“You walked,” I whispered against Isabella’s golden curls, my voice thick with emotion.

“Emma said my legs were just sleeping,” Isabella giggled, wiping a tear from my cheek with her small hand. “And momma gave me the key.”