“Marco,” Luca breathed, the name hitting the freezing air like a curse.

Carlo Bellini wasn't dead, but Marco had gone rogue. He didn’t want an alliance or a truce—he wanted absolute control, and taking the heir to both the Bellini and Moretti bloodlines was his ultimate leverage to force Carlo into stepping down.

“Where would he take her?” I asked, panic clawing at my throat.

“The private airstrip in Gary,” Luca said, already sprinting toward the alley. “If he gets her on a plane to Italy, we never see her again.”

We tore through the city in Luca’s SUV, breaking every traffic law. I gripped the door handle, praying to a God I hadn't spoken to in years that we wouldn’t be too late.

When we breached the chain-link gates of the private airfield, a sleek black jet was idling on the tarmac, its turbines whining loudly.

Marco stood at the bottom of the stairs, gripping a terrified Sophie by her arm.

Luca slammed on the brakes, the SUV skidding sideways on the icy asphalt. We both jumped out.

Luca didn’t draw his weapon. He threw his gun onto the ground.

He raised his hands, walking slowly toward the jet.

“Let her go, Marco,” Luca yelled over the roar of the engines. “You want the territory? It’s yours. The businesses, the ports. I’ll sign it all over. Just let my daughter walk to Claire.”

Marco sneered, pulling a pistol from his jacket and pressing it to Sophie’s side.

“You think this is about territory, Moretti? It’s about erasing the old blood. As long as she breathes, men will rally to her name.”

Sophie was crying, her small hands clutching the blue ribbon in her braid.

“Dad!” she screamed.

“I’m right here, baby,” Luca called back, his voice steady despite the absolute terror in his eyes. He took another step forward. “Take me, Marco. Kill me. You get the ultimate prize. The boss of the Moretti family. Let the child go.”

Marco hesitated. The glory of killing Luca Moretti himself was a tempting poison.

He shoved Sophie down the stairs. “Walk toward the car,” he barked at her, raising his gun at Luca.

Sophie stumbled, running toward me as fast as her legs could carry her.

I dropped to my knees, catching her in a desperate, bone-crushing embrace. “I’ve got you,” I sobbed into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

Marco smiled, aiming perfectly at Luca’s chest.

But Marco made one fatal mistake.

He forgot about the ledger. And he forgot who my father was.

Sirens suddenly wailed from every direction. Dozens of black tactical SUVs smashed through the airfield fences, surrounding the jet in seconds.

FBI agents swarmed the tarmac, their rifles raised.

“Drop the weapon!” a voice boomed over a megaphone.

Marco froze, realizing he was entirely surrounded. The federal agents my father had worked with a decade ago—the ones I had secretly texted the location to from the garage, using the contact numbers in the ledger—had finally arrived.

Marco dropped his gun. He was tackled to the asphalt and dragged away.

The turbine engines slowly powered down.

The silence that followed was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

Luca walked over to us. He fell to his knees on the cold tarmac, wrapping his arms around both me and Sophie. We held each other tightly, a tangle of tears and overwhelming relief.

“It’s over,” Luca whispered into my hair. “It’s finally over.”

Months later, on a warm Sunday morning, I stood in the kitchen of our new, quiet house in the suburbs. The mafia empire was dismantled, handed over to the feds in exchange for our absolute freedom and my father's ledger.

I looked out the window.

Luca was sitting in the grass under a large oak tree. In front of him sat Sophie.

He was carefully braiding her dark hair.

It still took him too long. It was still a little crooked.

But as he tied the faded blue ribbon at the bottom, Sophie turned and beamed at him. Then, she looked up at the window and waved at me.

I smiled, pressing my hand against the small, sparkling diamond on my left ring finger.

I wasn't a housekeeper anymore.

I was exactly where I belonged.