Keep moving, Clara.” Vanessa Sterling stood at the top of the grand marble staircase, her manicure catching the chandelier light as she folded her arms.

The Moretti estate moved with the precision of a high-level tactical operation.

Within ninety seconds, Dr. Harris was in the foyer with an emergency delivery kit, but there was no time to transport me to Evanston Memorial. The baby was coming fast, the intense stress of the last two days finally triggering active labor.

Vincent scooped me into his arms without hesitation, carrying me up the grand marble staircase—the very stairs where Vanessa had tried to break me twenty-four hours earlier—and into the sunny master suite.

“Daniel! Bring hot towels and the sterile packs!” Dr. Harris shouted down the hall. “Vincent, keep her upright!”

For the next four hours, the master bedroom was filled with the sounds of labor, pain, and fierce determination.

Vincent never left my side. The feared mafia boss, whose hands had ended wars, held my hand through every blinding contraction. When the pain became too much and I wept that I couldn't do it alone without Daniel, Vincent leaned in close, his voice a steady, unbreakable anchor in the storm.

“You are not alone, Clara,” he urged, his thumb wiping sweat and tears from my forehead. “Daniel is watching over you. Elena is watching over you. You are the strongest woman in this city. Push, Clara! Bring your daughter home!”

With one final, agonized scream, I gave everything I had left.

At 11:42 AM, the room was pierced by a sharp, lusty, beautiful cry.

“We have a girl!” Dr. Harris announced, laughing with relief as he clamped and cut the cord. “A beautiful, healthy baby girl! Eight pounds, two ounces!”

I collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing with sheer, overwhelming joy.

Dr. Harris quickly cleaned the baby and wrapped her in a soft white blanket before placing her onto my bare chest.

She was breathtaking. A thick crown of dark hair, rosy cheeks, and perfect, tiny fingers that instantly curled around my thumb.

Vincent stood beside the bed, looking down at the newborn with unmasked wonder. For the second time in two days, tears slipped silently down his rugged cheeks.

“She’s gorgeous, Clara,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

“Do you want to hold her?” I whispered, exhausted but radiant.

Vincent hesitated, looking at his large, scarred hands. “I don't want to break her.”

“You won't,” I smiled. “You’re the giant who guards the castle, remember?”

Gently, with infinite tenderness, Vincent took the baby into his arms. He cradled her against his chest, rocking her slightly as her crying subsided into soft, contented snuffles.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Sarah stood there, holding four-year-old Grace by the hand. The little girl peeked around the frame, her big blue eyes wide with curiosity.

“Daddy?” Grace asked quietly. “Did the stork come?”

Vincent laughed—a warm, rich sound that filled every corner of the room. He knelt down so Grace could see the tiny face bundled in the blanket.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Vincent said softly. “Come meet your cousin.”

Grace tiptoed forward, her eyes shining as she reached out a small finger to touch the baby’s cheek. “She’s so tiny. What’s her name?”

I looked at Vincent, then down at the ring on my finger, and finally at the little girl who had Daniel’s protector medal pinned inside her sweater.

“Her name is Danielle,” I said softly. “Danielle Grace.”