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.

Leaning heavily on Vincent’s arm, with Dr. Harris supporting my other side, I walked through the shattered entrance of St. Jude’s Preschool.

The smell of cordite lingered in the foyer, but inside the main hallway, bright paper cutouts of turkeys and handprint turkeys lined the yellow walls. In the furthest classroom, behind a barricaded door of small plastic desks, a woman stood holding a fire poker, her body shielding a tiny girl hiding inside a toy cubby.

“Sarah!” I cried, my voice echoing down the hall.

The woman froze. Her tear-streaked face snapped toward the doorway. “Clara?”

“It’s me! Put the poker down, please!”

Sarah Miller dropped the metal rod, breaking into hysterical sobs as she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around me. “Clara! Oh God, they broke through the glass… men with guns… they said they had papers from the state to take her!”

“They’re gone,” I whispered, hugging her tightly. “You’re safe now. This is Vincent Moretti.”

Sarah pulled back, her eyes widening in absolute terror as she looked at the towering, blood-spattered mafia don standing behind me. “Moretti? No… Daniel told me to run if Moretti ever found us!”

“Daniel sent him, Sarah,” I explained gently, taking her trembling hands. “Daniel died protecting this little girl, and Mr. Moretti is her father.”

Vincent stepped past us. His heavy boots made no sound on the alphabet rug.

In the corner, nestled inside a low wooden cubby beneath a rack of winter coats, was a four-year-old girl. She wore a pink cardigan with yellow buttons, her small hands clutching a worn, one-eared stuffed rabbit. Her hair fell in soft, dark ringlets around a porcelain face, and when she looked up, her wide, brilliant blue eyes met Vincent’s.

They were Vincent’s eyes. Exactly.

The breath left Vincent’s lungs in a ragged gasp. The man who had ordered the deaths of syndicate bosses and brought politicians to their knees fell to his knees on the brightly colored linoleum.

He didn't move closer. He didn't reach out. He seemed terrified that if he breathed too loudly, the fragile vision before him would shatter.

“Hello, Grace,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the syllables.

The little girl stared at him with solemn, inquisitive eyes. She looked down at his jacket, then up at his wet hair.

“Are you the giant?” she asked, her voice small and sweet.

Vincent blinked back hot, blinding tears. “The giant?”

Sarah stepped forward, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “Daniel… Daniel used to read her a story every night before bed. About an iron giant who lived in a castle in the clouds, guarding the city from monsters. Daniel told her that one day, when the storm cleared, the giant would come down from his castle to take her home.”

A broken sob tore from Vincent’s chest. He bowed his head, resting his forehead against the edge of the wooden cubby, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, four-year-old grief.

Grace tilted her head. Slowly, she extended a small, chubby hand and touched Vincent’s wet cheek.

“Don’t cry, giant,” she murmured. “The monsters are gone.”

Vincent looked up. With infinite care, as if lifting spun glass, he gathered his daughter into his arms, pulling her small, warm body against his chest. Grace wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, burying her face into his wet cashmere lapel.

I leaned against Sarah, weeping openly as my unborn child kicked firmly against my ribs.

Vincent held his daughter for five long minutes in that quiet classroom, the sounds of rain and distant police sirens fading into insignificance. When he finally stood, Grace was nestled securely in the crook of his arm, her little fingers tangled in his tie.

Vincent turned to me. The darkness that had haunted his face for eight months was gone, replaced by a fierce, radiant light of fatherhood.

“Daniel,” Vincent commanded, looking at his security chief who stood guard at the door.

“Yes, boss?”

“Escort Sarah and Clara to the vehicles. We’re returning to the estate. And tell the warehouse team to prepare Richard Sterling.”

Grace looked at Vincent with wide eyes. “Are we going to the castle?”