At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston’s most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone.

Autumn turned into a crisp, snowy winter.

The Romano manor on the North Shore was no longer a cold, fortified compound. The iron gates remained, but the grounds were filled with life.

Elena hummed in the kitchen as holiday wreaths were hung on the grand mahogany doors. The scent of cinnamon, pine, and woodsmoke drifted through the sprawling halls.

One evening, while heavy snow fell outside, blanketing the ocean cliffs in pure white, Dominic and I sat in front of a roaring fire in the library.

I curled my legs beneath me on the oversized leather sofa, reviewing the year-end financials for *Henderson’s Bakehouse*.

"We made a profit," I announced, looking over the top of my reading glasses at Dominic. "A real, legitimate, thirty-two percent operating profit. And every single employee received a five-thousand-dollar holiday bonus."

Dominic set down his book and looked at me with open adoration. He crossed the rug and knelt beside the sofa, resting his hands on my knees.

"You're a brilliant CEO, Mrs. Romano."

"I had a very intimidating tutor," I teasingly replied, running my fingers through his thick, dark hair.

Dominic’s expression softened, growing reflective. "The city council approved the waterfront park project this morning. We’re tearing down the old cargo warehouses on Pier 4. We’re building a community youth center and public boardwalk."

I smiled, my chest swelling with pride. "Your father would be proud, Dominic. You broke the cycle."

"You broke it, Chloe," he murmured, leaning forward to rest his forehead against mine. "Every good thing in my life, every clean breath I take, exists because you refused to obey Richard. You stepped forward when everyone else stepped back."