For one hour and twenty-seven minutes, a six-month-old baby screamed aboard a flight from New York to Los Angeles while his father, one of the most feared mafia bosses in America, struggl

Two months passed in a blur of golden California sunshine and profound peace.

The ghost house in Malibu became our sanctuary. The sprawling oceanfront estate was isolated, serene, and completely insulated from the violence of the world we had left behind.

Every morning, I woke up to the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. Maya spent her days building sandcastles with Silas, who had traded his tactical gear for linen shirts, though he still carried his weapon. Leo was crawling now, terrorizing the house cats and babbling constantly, completely attached to my hip as if I had birthed him myself.

And Dante… Dante was completely transformed.

The ruthless, hardened mafia boss was gone. In his place was a devoted father who spent hours on the floor playing blocks with the kids. In the evenings, after they were asleep, he would pour us wine, and we would sit on the balcony, talking for hours about everything and nothing.

Our relationship had blossomed slowly, built on a foundation of fierce trust and profound respect. The kisses we shared were lingering and deeply emotional, a promise of a future we were both terrified to rush, but desperate to claim.

Life was perfect.

Until the black Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the security gates.

I was in the kitchen, cutting up strawberries for Maya, when I saw the car on the security monitors. The license plate was from New York.

Dante walked into the kitchen, his jaw clenched tight. The relaxed father vanished, instantly replaced by the syndicate boss.

“Who is it?” I asked, wiping my hands on a towel.

“Lorenzo,” Dante said grimly. “My second-in-command from New York.”

A cold dread pooled in my stomach. The mafia didn’t do social visits.

Lorenzo was escorted into the grand living room by Silas. He was an older man, sharp and calculating, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit. He looked around the bright, airy beach house with visible disdain.

“Dante,” Lorenzo said, offering a stiff handshake. “You’ve been away from the city for a long time. The families are getting restless.”

“I run the syndicate just fine from here, Lorenzo,” Dante said coldly, pouring two glasses of scotch and handing one to the older man.

“Running a syndicate requires presence,” Lorenzo countered, taking a sip. “The Moretti truce is holding, but nature abhors a vacuum. Without you in New York, smaller crews are testing our borders. We look weak.”

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen, where I was standing just out of sight.

“And they are asking questions about the woman living in your house,” Lorenzo added smoothly.

Dante’s grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Clare is under my protection. She is family. That is not up for discussion.”

“Everything is up for discussion when you’re the boss,” Lorenzo said sharply. He set his glass down on the glass coffee table. “The Commission had a meeting yesterday, Dante. They want you back in New York by the end of the week. And they want you married to the daughter of the Calabrese family to solidify our power structure.”

My breath caught in my throat.

Married. To a mob daughter.

“I am not marrying a Calabrese,” Dante growled, stepping toward Lorenzo with lethal intent.

“If you refuse, they will vote you out,” Lorenzo warned, standing his ground. “You will be stripped of your territory, your men, and your protection. The wolves will tear you apart. You cannot hide in California forever, Dante. You are a Salvatore. Act like one.”

Lorenzo turned on his heel and walked out, the front door shutting heavily behind him.

The silence in the living room was deafening.

I walked out of the kitchen. Dante stood by the window, staring out at the ocean, his broad shoulders slumped under the crushing weight of his empire.

“You have to go back,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes.

Dante turned around. His eyes were desperate. “No. I’m not leaving you. I’m not leaving the kids.”

“If you lose your protection, Dante, they’ll come after you,” I said, my voice trembling. “I love you. I love Leo. But I will not be the reason you are killed. You have to go back to New York and marry her.”

Dante walked across the room and grabbed my face in his hands, his thumbs aggressively wiping away my tears.

“I love you too,” Dante said fiercely, the confession tearing out of his chest. “I love you, Clare. And I am not marrying anyone else. I am done with that world.”

“You can’t just walk away!” I cried, grabbing his wrists.

“Watch me,” Dante said.

He walked over to a heavy floor safe hidden behind a painting in the study. He spun the dial, pulled the heavy door open, and reached inside.

When he turned back to me, he was holding a small, black velvet box.