The maid dropped to her knees and begged me not to kill her three-year-old daughter after finding the child inside the one room no one in my estate was allowed to enter. But when I looked down at the little girl who had covered Chicago’s most feared man with a blanket, I realized she had already done something no gun, threat, or prayer had managed in three years.

One Year Later.

The third-floor library of the Moretti manor was unrecognizable.

The gloomy gray drapes had been replaced with bright, cream-colored linen that let sunlight flood across the polished hardwood floors. The old, dusty book stacks were now filled with bright children’s storybooks, board games, and framed photographs.

The thermostat on the wall read a comfortable seventy-two degrees.

I sat on the large velvet sofa—the very sofa where I had once slept with a gun under my pillow—wearing a comfortable white linen shirt and jeans. On my lap sat a small, coverless copy of Cinderella.

Sitting beside me was four-year-old Lily, looking vibrant, healthy, and full of life in a bright pink sun dress. She was leaning against my arm, pointing excitedly at the pictures in the book.

“And then the princess went to the castle,” Lily read aloud, her small finger tracing the printed words. “And she wasn't scared anymore because the woodcutter protected her!”

“That’s right,” I chuckled, kissing the top of her curly head.

Over by the large bay window, Allie was arranging a vase of fresh yellow sunflowers. She wore a simple, elegant blue dress, her hair pinned up, looking radiant. She turned around, catching my eye, and blew me a soft, loving kiss across the room.

We were married six months ago in a quiet ceremony in the estate gardens. The Moretti syndicate had been completely restructured—its illegal holdings liquidated or converted into legitimate maritime logistics and real estate development. The city knew me no longer as Chicago’s most feared mobster, but as a philanthropist, a devoted husband, and a fiercely protective father.

A soft scratch came at the library door.

Fantasma trotted into the room, followed closely by Marco, who was wearing a clean grey suit without a shoulder harness. He held a leather folder under his arm, smiling as he walked over to the sofa.

“Morning, Boss,” Marco said. “The legal adoption papers for Lily came through from the court this morning. It’s official. She’s a Moretti.”

Lily gasped, jumping up on the sofa cushion. “I’m a Moretti?! Like Dad?!”

“That’s right, kiddo,” Marco laughed, kneeling down to hand her a official-looking gold sticker from the folder. “You’re the boss of this whole house now.”

Lily cheered, grabbing the sticker and pressing it proudly onto her dress, before throwing her arms around my neck in a tight, affectionate hug.

“I love you, Dad!” she squeaked.

I held my daughter tight against my chest, closing my eyes, letting the sound of her laughter wash over me. Beside us, Allie walked over and sat on the arm of the sofa, resting her hand on my shoulder, resting her head against mine.

I looked down at the gray knit blanket, which was now neatly folded and draped over the back of the sofa—a permanent reminder of the day my heart unfroze.