WHO OPENED YOUR FATHER’S GRAVE?

Three weeks later.

The Chicago mansion was finally quiet. The heavy, oppressive atmosphere that had choked the halls during the engagement preparations was completely gone.

Sunlight poured through the massive windows of the solarium.

Julian was sitting on the floor, surrounded by college brochures and a massive, half-eaten pizza. My father sat in a comfortable armchair nearby, looking healthier than he had in years. The hospital had discharged him, and Luca had insisted he move into the ground-floor guest suite to continue his physical therapy.

I stood in the doorway, watching them.

I was holding a small cardboard box filled with my old housekeeping uniforms.

“You’re not actually going to throw those away, are you?”

I turned around. Luca was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a casual gray sweater and dark jeans. He looked younger. The stress lines around his eyes had faded significantly.

“I don’t really need them anymore,” I smiled softly.

“No, you don’t.”

Luca stepped closer. He reached out and gently took the box from my hands, setting it on a nearby table.

“I want to talk to you about your job, Emma.”

My stomach tightened slightly. Even after everything we had survived together, the power dynamic still lingered in the back of my mind. He was the head of the national syndicate. I was the girl who used to polish his floors.

“I’m looking for a new apartment,” I said quickly. “I know Dad and I can’t stay here forever. And I’m enrolling in night classes for business administration.”

Luca frowned. “Who said you couldn’t stay here forever?”

I looked down at my hands. “Luca, it’s not appropriate. I was your maid. We broke a major syndicate scandal, but your world… it expects you to be with someone from an established family. Someone who brings power.”

Luca reached out, gently placing two fingers under my chin, lifting my face so I had to look at him.

His dark eyes were intense, filled with an emotion that made my breath catch in my throat.

“You brought down my uncle, exposed a twelve-year conspiracy, saved my son’s life, and walked into a room full of mafia bosses without blinking,” Luca said softly. “You have more power in your little finger than any established family in this city.”

He stepped closer, closing the distance between us.

“I don’t care about the syndicate’s expectations, Emma. I care about you.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Luca…”

“You’re not my maid,” he whispered, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. “You’re the woman who gave me my family back.”

He leaned down and kissed me.

It wasn’t a rushed, desperate kiss of survival like the adrenaline-fueled moments we had shared before. It was slow, deliberate, and deeply tender. It felt like coming home after a very long, very dark storm.

I closed my eyes, melting into him, my hands reaching up to grip the soft fabric of his sweater.

When we finally pulled away, resting our foreheads together, he smiled.

“Stay,” he murmured.

“Okay,” I breathed.

He kissed my forehead, then reached into his pocket.

“Before we figure out the rest of our lives,” Luca said, his tone turning slightly serious. “There is one more thing we need to address.”

He pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It looked old and yellowed.

“When my men were clearing out Vincenzo’s private safe in New York,” Luca said, handing me the paper, “they found a ledger. It detailed the payments he made to keep Julian hidden.”

I took the paper, confused. “We already know this.”

“Look at the name at the bottom of the page, Emma.”

I unfolded the paper. It was a receipt for a massive wire transfer from twelve years ago. The memo line read: For the boy’s upkeep.

The signature at the bottom wasn’t my father’s.

It was my mother’s name.

Clara Reed.

I stared at the paper, the blood draining from my face. My mother had died of cancer when I was fifteen, right before Julian was supposedly brought to us.

“Luca,” I whispered, looking up at him. “My mother died before Julian was taken. How could she sign this?”