“TAKE THAT OLD MAN’S PLATE AWAY! HE’S HAD ENOUGH!” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE HUMILIATED HIS 27-YEAR-OLD MAID FOR SERVING HIS FATHER DINNER IN FRONT OF THIRTY-SIX GUESTS—BUT WHEN THE OLD MAN BEGGED HER NOT TO LEAVE HIM ALONE, THE MAFIA BOSS PUT DOWN HIS FORK AND ASKED ONE QUESTION THAT MADE HIS FIANCÉE GO PALE

The impact sent Vincent flying into the mud. His gun skittered across the wet pavement.

The door of the second vehicle flew open. Dominic Romano stepped out into the storm. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, his suit torn and soaked, but he moved with the terrifying speed of a predator.

He reached Vincent before his brother could even sit up. Dominic grabbed him by the collar, hauled him to his feet, and slammed him against the hood of the wrecked sedan.

"It's over, Vinnie," Dominic roared over the wind.

Vincent spat blood, laughing weakly. "You can't kill me, Dom. I'm blood."

"You lost the right to call yourself blood the day you threw our father down the stairs," Dominic said coldly.

He didn't shoot him. He didn't have to. The wail of police sirens echoed down the coastal highway. My anonymous tip to the warehouse had led them straight to Vincent's fleeing car.

Dominic shoved Vincent to the ground, letting the approaching officers deal with him. He turned and walked toward us.

I stood in front of Toby, shielding him.

Dominic stopped a few feet away. He dropped his weapon onto the grass and slowly sank to his knees in the mud. He didn't care about the rain or his bleeding head.

He just looked at Toby.

For the first time since I'd met the ruthless mafia boss, Dominic Romano was openly weeping.

Toby peeked out from behind my back. He squinted through his wet glasses at the man kneeling in front of him.

"Are you the man they were talking about?" Toby asked, his voice shaking. "Are you my real dad?"

Dominic nodded, his chest heaving. "Yes. I am."

"Why did you leave me?" Toby asked quietly.

It was a question that broke my heart.

"I didn't," Dominic choked out, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the faded Polaroid of Elena and the baby. He held it out with a trembling hand. "I didn't know you existed until tonight. Your mother... she was the love of my life. If I had known, I would have burned the world down to find you."

Toby looked at the picture. Then he looked up at me.

I smiled through my tears and nodded.

Hesitantly, Toby stepped out from behind me. He walked up to Dominic and put a small, cold hand on his father's shoulder.

Dominic pulled the boy into his arms, burying his face in Toby's coat, holding him as if he would never let go.

Three days later.

The Romano mansion was quiet. The rain had passed, leaving the New Jersey estate bathed in warm morning sunlight.

Catherine was in federal custody, singing like a bird about the Moretti family to save herself. Vincent was locked away in a high-security prison, awaiting trial for attempted murder.

I walked into the dining room carrying a tray of fresh coffee and pastries.

Anthony was sitting at the head of the table. He was wearing his best suit, his silver pocket watch finally fixed and ticking softly against his vest. He looked ten years younger. His dignity, so cruelly stripped away by Catherine, had been fully restored.

Beside him sat Toby. He was laughing, eating a massive blueberry muffin while Anthony told him stories about his grandmother, Maria.

Dominic stood by the window, watching them. When he saw me, he smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"Morning, Emily," Dominic said.

"Good morning, sir," I replied, setting the tray down.

Dominic walked over and gently pushed the tray aside. "I told you yesterday, Emily. You're not a maid anymore. You're family. You raised my son when I couldn't. This house is yours as much as it is ours."

I blushed, looking down at my hands. "I just want Toby to be happy."

"He is," Anthony chimed in, patting Toby's shoulder. "He's home."

It was a perfect moment. The nightmare was over. The family was whole.

But as I reached to pick up Anthony's old winter coat to hang it in the closet, my fingers brushed against a strange, hard lump hidden deep inside the heavy wool lining.

I frowned, feeling the fabric. There was a secret tear in the seam.

I slipped my hand inside and pulled out a small, locked, leather-bound diary. Gold initials were stamped on the cover: M.R.

Maria Romano.