On the nineteenth morning, Dominic Moretti finally put a gun on his cousin’s dinner table.

A month had passed since the night at Pier 4. The Moretti estate had transformed. The heavy, oppressive silence that once filled the grand hallways had been replaced by the quiet, comforting sounds of a home being rebuilt.

Security around the estate remained tight, but the guards no longer carried themselves like men waiting for a war. Instead, they stood watch over a peaceful sanctuary.

In the nursery—a bright, airy room decorated in soft blues and creams—Claire stood beside a custom cherry-wood crib, gently rocking Gabriel to sleep. The infant had filled out wonderfully; his cheeks were rosy, his breathing smooth and quiet, and his dark hair was beginning to curl just like his father’s.

Dominic walked into the nursery softly, carrying two mugs of warm coffee. He handed one to Claire, his touch gentle as his fingers brushed hers.

"You don't have to stay here every night, you know," Dominic said quietly, looking down at his sleeping son with endless adoration. "We hired three full-time pediatric nurses last week."

"I know," Claire smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. "But none of them know how to sing the Italian lullaby correctly."

Dominic chuckled—a deep, rich sound that made Claire’s heart skip a beat. Over the past month, she had stayed on at the estate as Gabriel's primary private medical consultant, ensuring his complete transition back to full health. But as the days turned into weeks, her presence had become far more than just professional.

She had become the steady anchor in Dominic’s life, the person he turned to when the memories of Lucia’s death weighed heavy on his shoulders, and the woman whose laughter brought light back into a house that had been dark for far too long.

"Sofia is organizing a memorial service for Lucia tomorrow," Dominic said, his tone turning reflective as he walked over to the window. "A proper service at the cathedral. Now that Gabriel is safe, it's time to finally lay her to rest properly."

Claire stepped up beside him, resting a comforting hand on his arm. "She would be so proud of you, Dominic. You fought for her son when everyone told you to give up."

Dominic turned his head to look at her. "I wouldn't have known to fight if you hadn't walked into that room and told me to put my gun away."

Claire smiled softly. "You were making too much noise outside my unit."

"I was," Dominic admitted, a tender look in his eyes. "I was a man who thought power came from weapons and fear. You taught me that true strength is watching over what matters."

He lifted a hand, gently touching a strand of hair that had fallen near her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Claire’s breath caught in her throat. The pull between them had grown stronger with every passing day—a quiet, powerful bond forged in the darkest hour of both their lives.