The spring sun was shining brilliantly over the manicured lawns of the Castalano estate, washing the grand courtyard in warmth and golden light.

Inside the sunlit conservatory, the air smelled of blooming white jasmine, fresh coffee, and sweet vanilla shortbread.

I sat at a small wrought-iron table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing a soft pastel-blue sundress, watching the love of my life chase a giggling three-year-old across the emerald grass.

“Faster, Grumpy!” Mia squealed, her yellow sundress fluttering as she ran in circles around the stone fountain.

Vincent Castalano—the feared mob boss of Chicago, the ruthless syndicate kingpin who had brought down a corrupt district attorney with a single phone call—was currently wearing an untucked white linen shirt, running across the lawn after a toddler while pretending to be a roaring bear.

Renzo Moretti stood nearby, holding a silver coffee tray and trying very hard not to smile, though a broad grin kept breaking through his professional composure.

I took a slow sip of my coffee, a deep, abiding peace settling into my soul for the first time in years. Marcus Vance’s indictment had made front-page news nationwide two months ago; Judge Miller had been stripped of his robes and remanded to federal custody; and my real name was safely restored, cleared of all false allegations by a team of the finest constitutional lawyers money could buy.

I didn't have to hide anymore. I didn't have to run.

Vincent scooped Mia up into his arms, tossing her into the air with a deep, booming laugh that echoed across the gardens. Mia shrieked with pure delight, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck and planting a loud, sloppy kiss right on his cheek.

Vincent walked back toward the conservatory, carrying our daughter on his broad shoulders, looking less like an underworld warlord and more like a proud, besotted father.

He stepped through the glass doors, setting Mia down gently so she could run off to play with her new wooden puzzle by the corner table, before pulling out the chair opposite me and sitting down.

He reached across the small table, his large, warm hand covering mine, his slate-grey eyes softening as they locked onto mine.

“You’re quiet today, Elena,” he murmured, his thumb gently tracing my knuckles.

“I was just thinking,” I smiled softly, leaning into his touch. “About the first day we met. When Mia marched into your study and told you that you looked grumpy.”

Vincent let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “The most terrifying moment of my entire criminal career. I thought about having Renzo throw you both out.”

“You did not,” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

“I seriously considered it,” Vincent grinned, that rare, breathtaking smile transforming his face entirely. “Until she copied my scowl. That was when I knew I was completely doomed.”

“You know,” I whispered, leaning forward across the table, my eyes sparkling with mischief, “the staff is still talking about the new rule you posted in the kitchen last week.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow innocently. “What rule?”

“Rule Number Three: The Master’s private cookie tin is legally accessible to toddlers named Mia, under penalty of exile.”

Vincent chuckled, leaning across the table to press a soft, lingering kiss against my lips.

“Strictly enforced,” he murmured against my mouth, “by order of the boss.”

Outside the conservatory windows, the Chicago sun sparkled brightly over a world that was finally safe, warm, and entirely ours.