As one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses, I had cameras covering every corner of my twenty-seven-room mansion because eleven caregivers had already disappointed me, and I refused to let a twelfth fail my paralyzed triplet sons.

I woke up three days later to the clean, clinical scent of antiseptic and the soft, rhythmic hum of a heart monitor.

I blinked against the white light, slowly looking around. I wasn't in a hospital. I was back in the private master suite of my own mansion, connected to IV lines and blood bags.

Sitting in an armchair right beside my bed, holding my left hand tightly in her sleep, was Angela. She was still wearing her scrubs, her face pale with dark circles beneath her eyes, looking as though she hadn't left my side for a single minute.

I moved my fingers slightly.

Angela stirred instantly, her hazel eyes snapping open. When she saw me looking at her, a breathless sob escaped her lips.

“Andrew,” she whispered, leaning forward, carefully placing her hands on my chest. “You’re awake.”

“How long?” I rasped, my throat dry as sandpaper.

“Three days,” she said, reaching for a glass of water with a straw, gently holding it to my lips. “The shrapnel missed your subclavian artery by three millimeters. Dominic brought a surgical team here to operate. You lost a lot of blood, but the infection is gone.”

I swallowed the cool water, feeling the strength slowly returning to my limbs. “The Morettis?”

“Dominic took care of the city,” Angela said softly, her thumb gently stroking the back of my hand. “The moment news of the ambush broke, your entire organization went to war. Don Moretti’s warehouses were seized, his men surrendered, and Don Moretti fled the state yesterday morning. The Moretti family is finished in Chicago.”

I let out a long breath, leaning my head back against the pillows. “And Senator Vance?”

A small, dangerous smile touched Angela’s lips—a smile I had never seen on her gentle face before.

“Dominic delivered the audio recordings from the ambush and Harrison’s signed confession to the FBI,” she said. “Senator Vance was arrested yesterday afternoon live on television at the State Capitol for conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, and medical fraud.”

I looked at her, amazed by the quiet strength radiating from her frame. She had survived a mob hit, treated my fatal wounds on an asphalt street, and helped bring down a corrupt senator—all while keeping my household together.

“How are my boys?” I asked softly.

Angela’s smile transformed into something radiant, breathtaking, and full of warmth.

“See for yourself,” she said.

She stood up, walked to the double oak doors of my master suite, and opened them wide.

Sitting in three lightweight, self-propelled wheelchairs—without IV poles, without monitoring straps, and without nurses guiding them—were Phillip, Eric, and Adam.

Eric was holding a colorful get-well card he had hand-drawn with colored pencils. Adam was smiling broadly, his eyes clear and vibrant.

And Phillip—my eldest boy—placed his hands on the armrests of his wheelchair, gritted his teeth, and slowly, unsteadily pushed himself up onto his own two feet.

He stood upright in the doorway, trembling, balancing on his own legs for five glorious seconds.

“Dad,” Phillip called out, his voice strong and clear. “Look.”

Tears instantly flooded my eyes, blurring my vision as my heart swelled so large it felt like it would burst through my chest. I tried to sit up, completely ignoring the sharp pain in my shoulder.

“Phillip...” I wept softly, stretching my arm out toward him.

Phillip took one slow, shuffling step forward into the room before losing his balance, falling gently into Angela’s waiting arms. She caught him with a laugh, helping him back into his chair, before wheeling all three of them up to my bedside.

My boys crowded around my mattress, hugging my neck, telling me about their therapy, while I held them all tightly against my chest, crying unashamedly for the first time in my adult life.

Over their shoulders, I looked up at Angela. She was standing at the foot of the bed, wiping tears from her own cheeks, watching us with pure, unconditional love.

I reached out my hand toward her.