For twenty years, the city of Chicago had learned to speak the name Alejandro Moretti in hushed, careful tones.

By three o'clock in the morning, the rain had begun to fall over Chicago, washing away the smoke and blood that had stained the city streets.

Dante Vane’s men moved through Victor Rossi’s private properties like an eradication force. Every server, every safe, every paper ledger containing references to Dr. Vance, Sofia’s medical records, or the existence of the quadruplets was gathered into steel drums and set ablaze in a industrial furnace on the south side of town.

By five AM, the bloodline secret was officially safe once again. Every single shadow that had hunted my sons had been erased from the earth.

I stood in the blackened, burnt-out foyer of my main estate, watching the morning sun break through the rainy clouds. The heavy iron front doors were ruined, the marble floor was pitted with bullet holes, but the structure remained standing. Strong. Immovable.

Dante walked up beside me, lighting a cigarette.

"It's clean, Moretti," Dante reported, blowing a trail of blue smoke into the chilly morning air. "Victor’s entire operation is dust. No records left. No surviving men who know about the boys. As far as the world is concerned, Victor tried to take your throne and you wiped him out. Simple mob war."

"Good," I said, looking up at the high ceiling where the crystal chandelier used to hang. "The money has been transferred to your offshore account, Dante. Double what we agreed on."

Dante paused, looking at me with a rare flicker of respect in his cold mercenary eyes. "You're a terrifying bastard, Alejandro. But those four kids... they’re damn lucky to have you as a father."

"I'm the lucky one," I said quietly. "They gave me a reason to stay human."

Dante nodded once, flicked his cigarette away, and walked out toward his tactical vehicle, leaving me alone in the silence of my ruined home.

I didn't stay. I got back into my SUV and drove straight back to the secret safe house on Lake Michigan.

When I unlocked the heavy security doors and walked into the living area, the house was filled with the warm, delicious smell of toasted bread and melted butter.

Elena was in the kitchen, flip-flopping around in her slippers, cooking breakfast.

And at the kitchen island sat four identical boys, their small legs swinging from the tall wooden stools, their faces smeared with red strawberry jam.

As my heavy footsteps sounded against the floor, all four of them stopped eating and turned their heads in unison.

Mateo was the first to speak.

"Daddy!" he shouted, sliding down from his stool and running across the hardwood floor on his little bare feet.

Leo, Nico, and Lucas immediately followed, an avalanche of tiny blue-shirted boys charging toward me.

I dropped my heavy coat onto the floor, dropped down to my knees, and opened my arms wide.

They hit me all at once, four sets of small arms wrapping around my neck, my shoulders, my waist. Their laughter filled the silent room, warm and bright and full of life.

I pulled them close, pressing my face into their soft hair, smelling the sweet strawberry jam and baby shampoo. Tears finally filled my eyes, hot and cleansing, washing away five years of ice and grief.

Elena stood by the stove, wiping her eyes with her apron, smiling through her tears.