The four boys immediately scrambled behind her legs, peering out at me with large, dark gray eyes.

“Dominic,” Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “I told you not to follow us.”

I stooped down, picked up her fallen key ring, and held it out to her. My hand was steady, but my eyes held hers with absolute, unrelenting intensity.

“You can tell me to leave a hundred times, Clara,” I said quietly, the rain soaking through my navy suit jacket. “You can scream at me, you can hate me for what I did six years ago, and you can slap my face right here on these steps. But I am not walking away from you or my sons ever again.”

Clara stared at me, her lower lip trembling as she fought back tears. The rain plastered her dark curls against her cheeks, making her look remarkably like the young woman I had fallen in love with in that quiet art studio seven years ago.

“Mommy?” Julian piped up from behind her skirt, pointing at my face. “Why is the big man getting wet? Is he coming inside for dinner?”

Clara looked down at our four boys, then back up at my face. She saw no mob boss standing before her; she saw only a man stripped of his armor, soaking wet in a rainstorm, begging for a second chance.

With a shaky sigh, she took the keys from my hand, unlocked the heavy oak door, and stepped inside.

“Take off your shoes,” she said softly. “And don't touch anything in the hallway. The floor was just waxed.”

The interior of the brownstone apartment was small, warm, and chaotic. The air smelled faintly of lemon wax, roasted chicken, and fresh lavender. Toys were neatly stacked in plastic bins near the radiator, four small raincoats hung on hooks by the door, and a large dining table in the kitchen was covered with school drawing pads and colored pencils.

It was a home. A real, living, breathing home—something I had never known in the cold, cavernous marble halls of the Moretti estates.

The four boys immediately kicked off their sneakers and darted into the living room, whispering frantically to one another about the “giant man” who had followed them home.

I stood in the center of the kitchen, feeling impossibly large and out of place in my expensive suit, watching Clara hang up her coat.

She turned around, resting her back against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

“The engagement?” she asked quietly. “What did you do about Sloane Barrett?”

“I canceled it,” I answered cleanly, taking off my wet jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “I sent a text to her, and my brother is currently handling the political fallout with her father.”

Clara let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “You canceled a marriage alliance with one of the most powerful families in New England via a text message? Dominic, are you insane? Your brother and the Barretts will tear you apart for this!”

“Let them try,” I replied, taking a step toward her, my voice dropping into a low, lethal register. “There is no power in this city, no contract, and no family alliance that matters more to me than the woman standing in this kitchen and the four boys sitting in that living room.”

Clara pressed her back harder against the counter, her eyes wide as I closed the distance between us.

“You think it’s that easy?” she whispered, tears finally overflowing her eyelashes and cutting tracks down her cheeks. “You think you can just walk back into my life after six years of silence, wave your money around, and pretend you didn't break my heart into a thousand pieces?”

“No,” I said, stopping inches from her, my hands hovering near her waist, desperate to touch her but forcing myself to respect her boundaries. “I know I ruined everything. I know I caused you six years of agonizing pain and single-handed labor. I don't expect you to forgive me tonight, Clara. I don't expect you to let me back into your bed. But I am going to spend every remaining day of my life earning your trust back.”

Before Clara could reply, a loud, sharp knocking echoed from the front door of the apartment.

Not a polite knock. A heavy, thunderous, authoritative pound that rattled the glass panes of the transom window above the doorframe.

My brother’s voice bellowed from the hallway outside.

“Dominic! Open this door right now! Old man Barrett has called a emergency syndicate tribunal, and your security team says you’re hiding in Southie with an archivist!”

Clara’s face went deadly pale.

I turned my head toward the door, my eyes narrowing into two slits of cold, lethal steel.

The Moretti family had come to collect their boss.

And they were about to discover that the man who walked out of that apartment tonight was no longer playing by their rules.