The string quartet had just lifted their bows when my three-year-old son pointed at the groom and screamed, “Daddy!”

Dawn broke over the Boston skyline in streaks of pale amber and bruised violet.

Inside Trauma Three, a clear plastic IV line snaked down from an elevated pole, feeding a dark, rich crimson fluid directly into Samuel’s arm. The synthesized antigen transfusion had begun forty minutes ago, and the change was already terrifyingly miraculous.

Sam’s respiratory rate had stabilized from fifty shallow gasps a minute to a calm, rhythmic twenty-two. The grayish tint in his cheeks was receding, replaced by a faint, fragile bloom of pink. The monitors that had shrieked warnings all night were now humming a steady, peaceful lullaby.

Dominic had not left our side.

He sat on the linoleum floor with his back against the wall, one arm draped over my knee as I sat in the chair, while Noah and Lucas sat on either side of his legs, completely fascinated by their newfound father.

“Does your car have rocket launchers?” Lucas asked, chewing on the corner of a blueberry muffin Mikhail had brought from the cafeteria.

“No,” Dominic replied, his voice rough and gravelly from exhaustion, but softer than velvet when he addressed the boys. “It has run-flat tires, four-inch ballistic glass, and an engine tuned to hit sixty miles an hour in three seconds. But no rockets.”

“That’s boring,” Noah declared, swinging his small legs. “Mommy’s old station wagon had a hole in the floor where you could see the road. That was like a rocket.”

Dominic looked up at me, a mixture of amusement and agonizing guilt flashing through his dark eyes. “A hole in the floor?”

“The muffler rusted through last winter,” I admitted, a faint flush touching my cheeks. “I put three layers of duct tape and a rubber floor mat over it.”

Dominic reached up, his calloused fingers gently wrapping around my wrist, pulling my hand down into his lap. He interlaced our fingers, his thumb stroking the back of my hand with a familiar, searing tenderness.

“No more duct tape, Maya,” he murmured, his voice dropping low so the boys wouldn't hear the raw emotion underneath. “No more commercial bakeries. No more two-bedroom apartments over auto shops. You and the boys are coming home.”

I looked at him, my heart clenching. “Dominic, we can’t just erase three years. You’re still the Don of this city. There are men with guns outside this room. My children cannot grow up in the middle of a mafia war.”

“There won't be a war,” Dominic said with chilling certainty.

Before I could ask what he meant, Mikhail tapped softly on the glass door. His face was grim.

“Boss,” Mikhail said, stepping just inside the threshold. “The capos are assembling at the North End warehouse. Word leaked that Victor was taken into custody by your personal guard. Sal Marcone and the traditionalists are claiming you broke the family code by laying hands on your father. They’ve called an emergency tribunal for eight o’clock this morning.”

Dominic didn't look surprised. He gently unhooked Noah’s hands from his sleeve, kissed both boys on the top of their heads, and rose to his feet.

“How many capos showed up?” Dominic asked.

“All twelve,” Mikhail answered. “And Victor managed to smuggle a handwritten directive out of his holding cell before we confiscated his phone. He’s calling for an open vote of no confidence. If the capos vote against you, Dominic, the entire syndicate will mobilize against this hospital by noon.”

My blood ran cold. I stood up, grabbing Dominic’s arm. “Dominic, no. Don't go there. They’ll kill you.”

Dominic turned to me. He reached out with both hands, cupping my face, his thumbs gently wiping away the remnants of my dried tears.

“Three years ago, Maya, I let my father dictate the rules of my life,” Dominic said, his dark eyes burning with an unshakable fire. “I let him push you away because I was too blind, too consumed by my own arrogance, to see that he was poisoning everything I loved. I will not make that mistake twice.”

I pulled Celeste’s USB drive from my pocket and pressed it into his palm.

Dominic looked down at the encrypted metal drive, his eyebrows furrowing. “What is this?”

“Celeste came here last night,” I said. “She gave me this. It’s Victor’s offshore accounts. He’s been stealing from your legitimate trusts, Dominic. He was planning to frame you for federal tax fraud the moment your wedding concluded. The Avery family has officially backed you. Victor has no money, and he has no allies.”

A slow, lethal smile spread across Dominic’s lips—the smile of an apex predator who had just been handed the exact jugular coordinate of his prey.

“Celeste is smarter than her father ever was,” Dominic murmured, closing his fist around the drive.

He leaned down and kissed me.

It wasn't a tentative, polite kiss. It was deep, desperate, and filled with three years of starving agony. His lips claimed mine with an authority that left me breathless, reminding my body of every promise he had ever whispered against my skin in the dark.

When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing.