A damp rag dragged across the laminate counter, carrying the smell of stale coffee and exhausted dreams.

The failed attack on Mave's Bistro was the final nail in the coffin for the Vane family.

Within four hours of the incident, Marco and the Costa enforcers handed Julian Vane and his remaining loyalists directly over to Don Carmine and the Syndicate Council. Attempting to murder a pregnant wife of a Council boss inside a protected establishment was a violation that even the oldest laws could not forgive.

Julian Vane was permanently exiled to a federal prison upstate through anonymous evidence Roman delivered to the FBI, and Victor Vane was forced into complete retirement, forfeiting every asset his family owned to the Costa Foundation.

By spring, the snow on Fourth Street had melted, replaced by blooming tulips and warm, gentle breezes off the harbor.

The restaurant had been repaired—the marble bar replaced with an even grander slab of black granite, the front windows upgraded to thick, bulletproof reinforced glass disguised as elegant crystal.

Mave was six months pregnant now, her bump proudly showing beneath her custom-made silk maternity dresses. She still ran the bistro, though Roman had hired two assistant managers to handle the physical labor so she could sit at booth four with her feet up.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon, the restaurant was closed for a private family gathering.

The front doors were wide open, letting the warm spring sunshine wash over the oak floors.

In the kitchen, Roman was actually standing near the stove, wearing a plain white apron over his dark trousers, carefully flipping a fried egg in a copper skillet.

Mave stood at the kitchen door frame, leaning her shoulder against the wood, holding a cup of decaf tea, watching him with an amused smile.

"Your technique is terrible," Mave noted cheerfully. "You're burning the edges."

Roman didn't look up, carefully lifting the egg with a spatula and placing it onto a piece of toasted white bread. "This is artisanal fried egg preparation, Mrs. Costa. It requires precision."

He melted a piece of yellow American cheese over the hot egg, closed the sandwich, and carried it over to her on a fine porcelain plate.

Mave took a bite. The warm grease, salty cheese, and crispy bread exploded on her tongue.

It was perfect.

"Well?" Roman asked, watching her intently like a nervous apprentice.

"It tastes like Arty's," Mave declared, taking a second bite. "Except nobody yelled at me while I ate it."

Roman smiled, wrapping his arms gently around her waist from behind, resting his hands over her round stomach, feeling the tiny, distinct kick of their baby against his palms.

"He's kicking," Roman whispered, his voice filled with a profound wonder that never failed to melt Mave's heart.

"She's kicking," Mave corrected with a smirk. "I told you, it's a girl. She's already got her mother's attitude."

Roman rested his chin on her shoulder, looking out through the open kitchen doors toward the golden dining room beyond.

"I used to think this city was just a pile of stone and money to be fought over," Roman murmured softly. "I thought power meant having five hundred men ready to die for you."

He tightened his arms around her, kissing the soft skin of her neck.

"Now I know power is having one woman who tells you your coffee is terrible and makes you want to be a better man every single day."

Mave leaned back against his broad chest, holding his hands over her belly, looking out at the beautiful, safe world they had built together out of the ashes of a greasy diner.