The corridor leading to Room 4B was narrower, older, and deliberately isolated from the lavish guest wings. Here, the central heating barely penetrated the thick granite walls. Lorenzo walked slowly down the carpet runner, his leather shoes making no sound against the dense wool.

He hadn't seen his father in four months. The doctors in Zurich and Boston had all delivered the same terminal prognosis five years ago: massive ischemic stroke, bilateral cerebral damage, irreversible catatonia. The formidable Don Giovanni Moretti—a patriarch who had once dictated terms to governors and crushed the Russian Vor with a flick of his wrist—was, by medical definition, an empty shell.

Lorenzo pushed the heavy oak door open, steeling himself for the familiar, depressing sight: darkness, the stale stench of neglect, and the suffocating silence of decay.

Instead, the warmth hit him first.

A crackling fire burned merrily in the stone hearth, its golden glow dancing across freshly dusted bookshelves. The thick velvet curtains were pinned back, allowing the violet twilight of the storm to fill the room. And seated near the glass, wrapped in a plush, lavender-scented heated blanket that was plugged into the wall, was his father.

Lorenzo stopped. He blinked, stunned by what he saw.

Giovanni’s silver hair had been neatly combed back from his temples, trimmed with care around the ears. His face was cleanly shaven, smelling faintly of citrus and witch hazel. On the side table sat a porcelain bowl, wiped spotless, alongside an empty mug that still held the lingering aroma of steeped chamomile and clover honey.

"Father?" Lorenzo whispered, stepping forward.

Giovanni sat upright in the wheelchair. To an untrained eye, he appeared as motionless as a statue. But as Lorenzo drew close and knelt beside the chair, he saw his father’s dark brown eyes—eyes identical to his own—shift deliberately toward him.

Lorenzo reached out and covered his father’s weathered hand. It was warm. Shockingly warm.

"The head housekeeper told me you were comfortable," Lorenzo murmured, his voice softening with rare, genuine emotion. "I thought she was exaggerating to keep her bonus. But she actually took care of you."

At those words, Giovanni’s jaw clenched with sudden, fierce tension.

A faint tremor ran through the old man's right arm. Lorenzo felt his father’s index finger twitch, tapping three times against his knee, then dragging slightly toward the bedside table. On the table lay an open, worn paperback book: a cheap romance novel with a cracked spine, dog-eared at page forty-two.

Lorenzo picked it up, puzzled. "What is this?"

Tucked inside the back cover was a folded paper receipt from a local discount pharmacy in the valley below. It was dated two weeks ago.

Item: Electric Fleece Throw - $34.99. Payment: Cash. Customer Signature: Nora Jenkins.

Lorenzo stared at the small slip of paper. His brow furrowed into deep, ominous ridges. He looked back at his father. Giovanni was looking directly at the receipt, and then, with agonizing effort, his eyes flicked toward the door, his pupils dilating with unmistakable warning.

"Who is Nora Jenkins?" Lorenzo asked softly.

Giovanni could not speak, but the single drop of sweat rolling down the old man’s temple spoke volumes.