The master bedroom of Raphael’s estate was a room no servant had ever seen in use. Now, Clara lay in the center of the massive king-sized bed, surrounded by silk sheets that felt like water against her calloused skin.

A doctor—a private physician whose loyalty Raphael had bought years ago—was packing his stethoscope into a black leather bag.

"Her heart is failing, Mr. Duca," the doctor said quietly in the hallway. "The mitral valve is severely compromised. The stress of today nearly triggered a full collapse. She needs a specialist, and she needs surgery. Soon."

Raphael stood in the shadows of the corridor, his face unreadable. "Make the arrangements. Buy the top surgeon in the country. I don't care what it costs."

When Raphael entered the room, Clara was awake. She looked terrified, pulling the heavy blanket up to her chin.

"Where is Noel?" she asked frantically.

The door opened. Mrs. Dora stepped in, her posture as straight as a ruler. Holding her hand was a little girl with thick pink glasses and a cloth horse with one eye.

"Mama!" Noel cried, running to the bed and burying her face in Clara’s neck.

Raphael watched them. He saw the way Clara’s trembling hands wrapped around her daughter, the fierce, desperate love that radiated from her fragile frame. He thought of the three pebbles on the windowsill.

"You will stay here," Raphael said, his voice softer than he had ever allowed it to be. "Both of you. No one comes through those gates unless I allow it."

Clara looked at him, tears spilling over her cheeks. "They will kill you, Mr. Duca. The Morettis... I ruined your alliance."

"There is no alliance with the men who murdered my father," Raphael replied. "You did not ruin my life, Clara. You gave me the truth. And for that, you will never have to scrub another floor, or freeze in a Chelsea apartment, for as long as you live."