SHE SAW HER SISTER IN THE MAFIA BOSS’S BEDROOM… FIVE YEARS LATER, HE FOUND HER WITH TWINS WHO HAD HIS EYES

The firefight was swift, brutal, and decisive.

Dominic’s elite force, overwhelming in number and tactics, disarmed Lorenzo’s men within seconds. Frank tackled Lorenzo to the ground, pinning him under a heavy boot and stripping his rifle away before he could squeeze the trigger.

Elena backed away toward the edge of the terrace in total panic, her high heels catching on the slippery wet stone as rain lashed against her face.

"Stay back!" she screamed, pulling a small silver pistol from her coat pocket and aiming it wildly. "Stay back, Dominic, or I swear to God I'll shoot!"

Dominic walked toward her slowly, completely unfazed by the weapon pointed at his chest. His eyes were cold, dead pools of dark granite.

"You destroyed five years of my children's lives," Dominic said, taking another step. "You made Clara suffer in the dark."

"She deserved it!" Elena shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. "I was supposed to be the queen of Boston! Not her! She was just a nobody!"

"She was everything," Dominic said flatly.

Before Elena could pull the trigger, a sharp shadow moved from the corner of the terrace.

Clara stepped out from the darkness, holding a heavy iron fireplace poker she had grabbed from the hearth. With a swift, powerful strike driven by five years of accumulated pain and rage, she slammed the iron rod down onto Elena’s wrist!

CRACK!

Elena screamed in agony as the silver pistol flew from her hand, clattering harmlessly down the cliffside into the sea below.

Elena collapsed onto her knees, clutching her broken wrist, gasping for air as she looked up at her sister in utter disbelief.

Clara stood over her, breathing heavily, the iron rod held firmly in her hands. The soft, mild-mannered girl who baked muffins in Maine was gone. Standing there in the rain was a fierce, protective mother who had defended her family.

"You took five years from me, Elena," Clara said, her voice dropping into a cold, terrifying whisper. "You took my children's father away from them. If you ever come near my family again, I won't just hit your wrist. Do you understand me?"

Elena cowered beneath her sister's glare, sobbing in defeat and pain. She nodded frantically.

Dominic walked up behind Clara, placing a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder. He looked down at Elena with cold disdain.

"Mateo," Dominic ordered quietly.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Take Lorenzo and Elena. Hand them over to the federal authorities along with the financial paper trails we secured from Vincenzo’s estate last week. Make sure they spend the rest of their natural lives in a maximum-security federal facility."

"Understood, sir," Mateo said, signaling to four operatives who hauled the groaning prisoners away into the night.

The house fell quiet again, save for the rhythmic sound of the ocean below and the fading chop of the helicopter blades overhead.

Dominic turned Clara around to face him. He took the iron poker gently from her trembling hands and tossed it onto the stone floor. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close against his chest.

"You hit her pretty hard," Dominic murmured, a faint, proud smile touching his lips.

"She touched my family," Clara said, resting her forehead against his chest, her heart still hammering. "No one touches my family."

Dominic lifted her jaw gently, looking deep into her soft brown eyes. "Your family, Clara? Or our family?"

Clara looked up at him—at the man who had crossed oceans of grief to find her, who had bled for her, who had built a sanctuary on the cliffs just to keep her safe.