I came home early and nearly fired the young maid I found sitting on my kitchen floor, making my three daughters laugh for the first time since their mother was murdered. But before I could throw her out, my eldest daughter grabbed my coat, looked me straight in the eyes, and spoke her first words in fourteen months: “Daddy killed Mommy.”

By 5:30 AM, the storm over Long Island had passed, leaving behind a thick, heavy fog that blanketed the estate lawns.

I returned to the nursery suite after confirming that Paul’s team had successfully extracted Jimmy’s daughter from the meatpacking plant in Manhattan. Three Moretti enforcers were dead; District Attorney Marcus Croft was currently sitting in a concrete vault three stories beneath my warehouse in Brooklyn, weeping into a chair.

The danger outside had been neutralized for the moment. But the danger inside was what kept my hand on my gun.

I opened the nursery door softly.

The room was warm and smelled of lavender and fresh linen.

Elena was sitting on the rug, surrounded by colored pencils and drawing paper. Valentina and Mia were sitting on either side of her, scribbling bright yellow suns and green trees onto the sheets.

Lucia sat a few feet away near the window, staring out into the white fog.

When I stepped into the room, Mia looked up, gasped softly, and pointed at my jacket.

I froze.

There was a small dark smudge of blood on the left cuff of my white shirt—a stray drop from the boathouse.

Before I could pull my sleeve down, Elena stood up quickly, taking a step toward me, deliberately placing her body between me and the children.

“Mr. Russo,” she said loudly enough to catch their attention. “I was just about to take the girls down to the dining room for breakfast. Rosa made pancakes.”

Valentina’s eyes lit up. “Pancakes?” she murmured, her voice tiny and high-pitched—the second voice to return in twenty-four hours.

My breath caught in my throat.

Valentina had spoken.

I dropped down to one knee, ignoring the blood on my cuff, looking across the room at my four-year-old daughter. “Valentina... what did you say, sweetheart?”

Valentina looked at Elena, then at me. “Pancakes with blueberries, Daddy. Elena said we could put extra syrup.”

A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it—a hot, silent drop that fell onto the hardwood floor.

I looked up at Elena.

She was smiling—a soft, genuine smile that made her light blue eyes shine in the morning light. The smudges of flour were gone from her face, replaced by a radiant warmth that seemed to push the dark shadows out of the grand, gloomy room.

“Go on down with Rosa, girls,” Elena said gently, patting Valentina’s shoulder. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Valentina grabbed Mia’s hand, and the two little girls hurried out the door toward the staircase, their light footsteps echoing happily down the hallway.

Lucia didn't move. She remained by the window, her small hands resting on the sill, looking at me with those deep, searching eyes.

I walked over to her slowly, stopping three feet away.

“Lucia,” I said softly. “The man with the scar on his face... he’s gone. He’s never coming back here again. Nobody is ever going to tell you lies about your mother again.”

Lucia looked at my hand—the hand that had built an empire, the hand that had held a gun twenty minutes ago.

“Mommy loved you,” Lucia whispered, her small voice steadying. “She told me... before the bad men came... she told me Daddy would always protect us.”

My chest cracked wide open.

I reached out, and this time, Lucia didn't flinch. She stepped forward, wrapping her tiny arms around my neck, pressing her small face into my shoulder.

I pulled her tight against my chest, closing my eyes, holding my daughter for the first time in fourteen months without the cold barrier of grief standing between us.

Over her shoulder, I looked at Elena.

She was standing near the door, watching us, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Thank you,” I whispered over Lucia’s head, my voice rough with emotion.

Elena shook her head softly, her smile widening. “You don't have to thank me, Mr. Russo. You just had to show her you were still her father.”

She turned to leave the room, but I called out to her.

“Elena.”

She paused, looking back over her shoulder.

“Stay,” I said quietly. “For breakfast. With us.”