Two Years After He Threw Her Out, the Mafia Boss Got a 4 A.M. Call: “Sir… Your Son Is Dying”

That evening, under the cover of dusk and surrounded by an escort of three blacked-out SUVs, Milo and I were transferred from St. Catherine's Hospital to the Falcone estate.

The estate was a sprawling, historic stone manor set deep in the forested hills overlooking the ocean. High stone walls topped with camera systems and security patrols surrounded the property. It was beautiful, opulent, and completely isolated—a gilded cage designed to keep the world out and its occupants safe.

Milo was enthralled by the size of the house, bouncing around the massive living room like a little tornado before exhaustion finally caught up with him. Nico personally carried him up to a master bedroom suite that had been hastily retrofitted with child-proof locks, plush toys, and a crib.

After tucking Milo in, Nico led me down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway to the master suite across from his own rooms.

"This will be your room," Nico said, pushing open the heavy door.

Inside, a fire crackled in a large marble fireplace. The king-sized bed was covered in silk linens, and a balcony overlooked the dark pine woods below. On the dressing table sat a small vase of white lilies—my favorite flowers.

I stood in the center of the room, running my fingers over the polished wood of the bedpost. "You remembered the lilies."

"I remember everything about you, Claire," Nico said, standing by the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He had discarded his tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his collar. He looked exhausted, the blood donation and the stress of the day finally taking their toll.

"Nico... what happens now?" I asked quietly, turning to face him. "We can't live behind iron gates forever. Milo needs a normal life. He needs to play in parks, go to school..."

"He will," Nico promised. "As soon as Salvatore Moretti is dealt with. Permanently."

The coldness in his tone made a shiver run down my spine. "You're going to kill him."

"He threatened my family, Claire," Nico said simply, as if stating a law of physics. "In my world, there is only one response to a threat against what is mine. He forced my hand the moment he started tracking you down."

He walked into the room, stopping a few feet away from me. The warmth of the fireplace cast long shadows across his face.

"I know you hate this life," Nico murmured. "I know you hate the violence, the secrets, the blood. I never wanted to drag you back into it."

"I don't hate you, Nico," I admitted softly, looking up at him. "I hated the lie. I hated thinking that what we had was fake—that I was just a temporary distraction for a dangerous man."

Nico took a slow step forward, his hand rising to gently trace the line of my jawline. His touch was feather-light, completely at odds with his formidable size.

"Nothing about you was ever fake to me," he whispered, his eyes dark with raw emotion. "You were the only real thing in my life. The only light in a room full of shadows."

My breath hitched. My heart beat frantically against my ribs as his thumb brushed over my lower lip. The distance between us evaporated. Two years of longing, heartbreak, and unspoken words condensed into a single, electric moment.

Before I could think, before logic could step in and remind me of the danger, I reached up and grabbed his lapels, pulling him down to me.

Nico let out a low groan as his lips met mine.

The kiss wasn't gentle—it was a sudden storm. It carried the frustration of two lost years, the desperation of a terrifying night, and the undeniable fire that had never truly died between us. He pulled me flush against his hard body, his strong hands holding me as if he were afraid I would vanish into thin air if he let go.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, both of us were breathlessly gasping for air.