My hands trembled as I took the folded paper from Sophie.

It wasn't torn or crumpled like the drawing of the crash.

It was carefully folded into a perfect square.

I opened it.

Written in her careful, ten-year-old handwriting were three simple words.

Will you stay?

Below the words, she had drawn a picture of three stick figures holding hands.

A tall man, a little girl, and a woman with brown hair holding a broom.

But someone had crossed out the broom.

I dropped to my knees so I was eye-level with her.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, my throat tight.

Sophie stepped out of her father’s arms and walked over to me.

She wrapped her arms around my neck.

“You smell like vanilla and clean laundry,” she whispered into my ear. “That’s what home smells like. Not expensive perfume.”

Tears spilled over my eyelashes.

I held my niece—my daughter in every way that mattered—and looked up at Luca.

He was watching us, his dark eyes softer than I had ever seen them.

“The house is going to be quiet without the Bellinis around,” Luca said, his voice low and steady.

“We need to rebuild. We need to start over.”

He walked over and knelt beside us on the cold concrete.

He reached out and placed his large hand over mine and Sophie’s.

“You don’t work for me anymore, Claire.”

I panicked for a second. “Mr. Moretti—”

“Luca,” he corrected gently.

He brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

“You’re family now. Officially. You will never wear an apron in my house again.”

He looked at the adoption papers still resting inside the velvet box on the floor.

“Tomorrow, we tell her the whole truth. Together.”

I nodded, unable to speak through the emotion tightening my chest.

But as I stood up, holding Sophie’s hand, I noticed something glinting in the dark corner of the garage, near where Marcus had been standing.

A small, silver charm.