Two starving little girls knocked on the door of Chicago’s most feared mafia boss in the middle of a violent storm and asked for food. Gideon Crosswell was about to have his guards take them somewhere safe when the younger child saw the sunflowers on his table and whispered a phrase no one had spoken since his four-year-old daughter died.

Three months later.

Spring had finally arrived in Chicago, painting the city’s parks in brilliant shades of green, yellow, and violet.

The heavy, dark iron gates of the Crosswell estate were open. The armed guards who had once stood ominously at every corner were still there, but their black tactical uniforms had been replaced by neat suits, and their sharp postures had relaxed into warm smiles as two young girls ran across the sprawling green lawns.

Gideon stood on the rear stone terrace, holding a silver tray loaded with fresh lemonade and fruit slices.

The mansion, once a cold, silent mausoleum built to mourn a dead child, was filled with sound.

Laughter echoed from the upstairs bedrooms. The smell of fresh baking bread drifted from the kitchen where Elena was working as the estate’s head manager—a position Gideon had insisted on offering her, complete with a permanent residential cottage on the grounds and full educational trust funds for both her daughters.

Maya, now nine, was sitting at a picnic table under a massive oak tree, sketching in a large art book Gideon had bought her for her birthday.

Lily, four years old, was running through the grass, her tiny shoes covered in yellow pollen as she chased a butterfly toward the garden wall.

Gideon walked down the stone steps, setting the tray down on the wooden table beside Maya.

“How’s the drawing coming, Maya?” Gideon asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Maya smiled brightly, turning her sketchbook toward him. It was a beautiful watercolor painting of the mansion, surrounded by tall, radiant sunflowers, with three little girls holding hands under a bright yellow sun.

“Who is the third girl?” Gideon asked gently, pointing to the smallest figure in the middle wearing a pink dress.

“That’s Ren,” Maya said softly, looking up at him with clear, honest dark eyes. “So she’s never lonely when we’re playing outside.”

Gideon felt a warm, deep comfort wash through his soul. He reached down and ruffled Maya’s hair gently. “It’s beautiful, Maya. Thank you.”

A car horn chimed softly from the driveway.

Marcus stepped out of a sleek sedan, carrying a leather briefcase. He walked down the stone pathway toward the terrace, giving a respectful nod to Elena as she walked out with a plate of cookies.

“Boss,” Marcus said quietly, opening his briefcase. “Final papers from the federal court in Illinois. Julian’s sentencing was finalized this morning. Life without parole at ADX Florence. The Syndicate’s remaining assets in the Midwest have been fully liquidated by state receivers.”

Gideon looked at the legal documents for a brief moment, then closed the folder without opening it.

“It’s over, Marcus,” Gideon said quietly. “Let the past stay where it belongs.”

“Understood, Mr. Crosswell,” Marcus smiled, taking the folder back. “Oh, and one more thing. The city council approved the zoning permit for the new community center down on 4th Street.”