182 The eighteenth nanny fled the mansion with blood running down her forehead, screaming that four-year-old Noah Vale was “not right”—and by that afternoon, I was kneeling in front of the same little boy while one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses watched from the staircase.

Six months later.

The spring thaw across Lake Forest was breathtaking. The massive iron gates of the Vale estate were still secure, but the oppressive, tomb-like gloom of the north wing was gone forever.

The iron window grilles had been completely removed, replaced by bright, double-paned glass that let the morning sunlight flood into Noah’s newly renovated bedroom. There were no security keypads on the doors, no panic rooms, and no fear.

Downstairs in the grand foyer, the marble floor was clean and bright.

I stood near the kitchen doorway, wearing a comfortable cashmere sweater, watching four-year-old Noah chase our new golden retriever puppy across the living room rug, his laughter ringing out like bells—a bright, joyful sound that would have been unimaginable a year ago.

Behind me, strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against a warm, solid chest. A familiar scent of sandalwood and rain filled my senses.

"You're spoiling him," Dominic murmured against my neck, pressing a soft kiss to my jawline.

"I'm teaching him how to be a normal kid," I smiled, leaning back into his embrace. "And by the way, Tyler’s final post-surgery checkup was yesterday. The cardiologist said his heart is completely healed. He's cleared to play soccer."

Dominic tightened his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. "I told you, Clara. Anything your family needs, anytime. You never have to worry about hospital bills again."

I turned around in his arms, wrapping my hands around his neck. "I know. And I’m not worried anymore."

Life with Dominic Vale wasn't conventional. In Chicago, people still whispered about his business dealings, federal agents still occasionally stopped by his study, and our world was far from ordinary.

But out here, behind these gates, we weren't a mafia boss and a hired hand. We were a family.

Later that afternoon, a sleek black sedan pulled up the gravel drive, and out popped my fifteen-year-old brother Tyler, looking healthier and brighter than I had seen him in years, carrying a duffel bag for a weekend visit. Noah sprinted toward the front door, shouting Tyler’s name at the top of his lungs, leaping straight into my brother's arms.

Dominic stood beside me on the front steps, his arm draped comfortably over my shoulders, watching the boys laugh in the sunlight.

"You know," Dominic said quietly, a teasing glint in his slate-gray eyes, "when you hit me with that first impression—breaking my son's bronze horse over your ribs—I honestly thought you'd last twenty-four hours."