I burst through the restaurant's heavy glass doors just in time to see the yellow cab pulling away from the curb, its tires splashing through a deep puddle as it merged into the evening traffic along Boylston Street.

“Boss!”

My black armored SUV pulled up beside me with a sharp screech of rubber. Frank, my head of security, slid the rear door open, looking visibly panicked.

“Boss, what happened to your comms?! Your brother is losing his mind at the conservatory! Old man Barrett is threatening to pull the port union contracts if you aren't there in five minutes—!”

“Follow that cab,” I commanded, vaulting into the leather back seat and slamming the door shut.

Frank blinked, stunned. “Sir?”

“You heard me, Frank! Follow that yellow taxi right now! Do not lose it!” I roared, pointing down the street where the cab’s red taillights were disappearing around the corner.

Frank didn't ask another question. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, making the heavy armored vehicle surge forward into traffic, its hidden strobe lights flashing behind the front grill to clear the lanes.

I leaned against the window, my heart hammering like a war drum against my ribs.

Six years. For six long years, I had believed that my sacrifice had bought Clara a safe, simple, happy life far away from the blood and darkness of the Moretti dynasty. I had buried my own desires, accepted a cold, transactional existence, and prepared to bind myself to the Barrett family to satisfy my father’s political ambitions.

And all the while, she had been raising four boys alone in this city. Four sons who bore my face, my eyes, and my blood.

“Frank,” I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“Run a full background sweep on Clara Vance. Current address, employment, financial standing, medical records—everything. I want it on my tablet in five minutes.”

“On it, sir.” Frank tapped frantically at his encrypted console on the dashboard.

Three minutes later, a comprehensive dossier loaded onto the leather-bound tablet resting beside my seat. I picked it up, my fingers shaking slightly as I scrolled through the pages of her life.

After leaving Boston six years ago, Clara had moved to a small town in western Massachusetts, surviving on a modest inheritance from her grandmother while completing her master’s degree in archival restoration. When she gave birth to quadruplets at Saint Mary’s Hospital—a high-risk delivery that had nearly killed her—she had raised them entirely on her own, refusing government assistance, working night shifts restoring antique documents for private libraries.

She had moved back to Boston six months ago after securing a contract with the Boston Public Library.

She lived in a modest, three-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a brownstone in South Boston.

She had no partner. No support system. No security.

Just a fiercely independent woman raising four six-year-old Moretti heirs on an archivist’s salary.

A wave of profound guilt and surging rage washed over me. Rage at my deceased father for forcing me to abandon her; guilt at myself for not searching harder; and an absolute, unshakeable resolve to ensure that from this second forward, no one in this world would ever cause her or my sons a single moment of pain again.

“They’re pulling up to a brownstone on West Sixth Street in Southie, Boss,” Frank reported, slowing the SUV down fifty yards behind the cab.

I watched through the rain-soaked window as Clara climbed out of the taxi, holding an umbrella over the four boys as they scrambled up the wet granite steps toward the front door of the brownstone. She was juggling four school backpacks, a bag of groceries, and her purse, looking thoroughly overwhelmed by the sudden downpour.

I pulled off my grandfather’s gold cuff links, unbuttoned my collar, tossed the velvet ring box onto the leather seat, and opened the door.

“Stay in the car, Frank,” I instructed softly. “No weapons, no guards. This is family business.”

I stepped out into the rain and walked up the steps toward the door just as Clara was fumbling with her house keys.