My navy wool suit was custom-tailored on Newbury Street, fitting my broad shoulders with sharp precision. My grandfather’s heavy gold cuff links glinted at my wrists, and inside my left breast pocket, a five-carat solitaire diamond sat nestled in a velvet box. Everything had been calculated to perfection.

Except the hollow ache that had lived inside my ribs for six long years.

Because I didn't love Sloane. I respected her, I admired her ambition, but she was an arrangement—a tactical asset dressed in silk.

When my driver’s route was blocked by a sudden motorcade delay along Commonwealth Avenue, I took advantage of the unexpected forty-minute window to step into an upscale Back Bay steakhouse to clear my head and straighten my tie.

The washroom was quiet when I pushed the heavy oak door open.

Standing before a row of marble sinks were four small boys. They were dressed identically: sharp navy crewneck sweaters, crisp khaki trousers, and dark, unruly hair brushed neatly to one side. They were conversing in hushed, animated whispers, standing on their tiptoes to reach the automatic soap dispensers.

As I approached the adjacent sink, the boy on the far left tilted his head back, running his hand through his thick dark hair, before reaching his left hand behind his neck to rub the base of his skull—a subtle, unconscious habit he performed when concentrating.

Instantly, the other three boys repeated the exact same motion in sequence.

I froze mid-stride, my hand hovering above the brass faucet.

That specific gesture—the slight tilt of the chin, the left hand rising to rub the nape of the neck when processing a thought—was a physical tick I had performed since I was old enough to stand. My mother used to tease me about it; my father called it the Moretti mark.

The boy on the left turned his head to look up at me.

My heart didn't just skip a beat; it dropped like an anvil through a glass floor.

His dark gray eyes. The distinct, slightly squared shape of his jaw. The stubborn, deep crease right between his dark eyebrows when he squinted against the overhead lights.

I wasn't looking at a stranger's child. I was staring at a living, breathing ghost of myself at six years old.

Before my mind could process the shock, the other three turned in unison.

Four identical faces. Four pairs of dark gray eyes staring up at me with open, innocent curiosity. Four carbon copies of Dominic Moretti standing in a row beneath the marble mirrors.

I had spent fifteen years sitting across mahogany tables from ruthless mob bosses, corrupt federal prosecutors, and armed cartel enforcers without letting a single flicker of emotion betray my thoughts. But looking down at those four children, my knees felt weak, and cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck.

"How old are you?" I managed to ask, my deep voice trembling slightly despite every ounce of training I possessed.

The boy on the left smiled, displaying a missing front tooth. "We’re six! I'm Leo, and these are my brothers—Julian, Mateo, and Lucas."

Six.

The number struck my chest with the force of a heavy sledgehammer.

Six years ago, my world had collapsed. There had been a woman—Clara Vance. She was an independent archival restorer who knew nothing about my family's dark empire when we met. For eight glorious, secretive months, she was the only light in my violent, shadowed existence. I had been preparing to walk away from the syndicate, to hand the reins to my younger brother, and to build a normal, quiet life with her far from Boston.

Then my father discovered our relationship. He issued a brutal ultimatum: leave her immediately, or watch her life be dismantled piece by piece. To protect her from the dangerous crossfire of my world, I made the most agonizing decision of my life. I staged a cold, heartless breakup, drove her away with calculated cruelty, and watched her vanish into the dark without looking back. I had spent every night since regretting that sacrifice.

My fingers instinctively reached into my suit jacket, brushing against the velvet box containing Sloane Barrett's engagement ring. The ring suddenly felt toxic, like a piece of burning iron searing through my shirt.

Footsteps clicked sharply against the hardwood floor outside the washroom door.

A woman's voice called out from the corridor—warm, melodious, laced with gentle, familiar exasperation.

"Boys? Are you washing your hands, or are you flooding the restaurant again?"

Every muscle in my body locked up instantly. Blood roared in my ears so loudly the room seemed to tilt.

Six years had passed. I had listened to thousands of voices across hundreds of boardrooms and back alleys, but I would have recognized that voice if I were deaf and dying.

It was Clara.

"Mommy's calling!" Lucas squealed, turning toward the door.

The four boys darted toward the entryway, their small sneakers squeaking against the tile.

I stayed rooted to the marble floor beside the mirror, paralyzed by a violent wave of realization, shock, and sudden, fierce hope.

Tonight, Boston expected Dominic Moretti to enter a glass conservatory, slip a diamond ring onto Sloane Barrett's finger, and seal a cold corporate alliance that would secure my family's future for a generation.

None of it mattered anymore. The empire, the Barrett family, the strategy, the legacy—it all dissolved into absolute insignificance.

Because the only woman I had ever truly loved was standing ten feet away on the other side of that door.

And four six-year-old boys bearing my face were running into her arms.