Roman Duca stopped five feet from the three children standing in the cold Chicago rain.

The penthouse at the top of the Duca Tower on Michigan Avenue was a fortress of glass, steel, and bulletproof reinforced concrete.

Six years ago, I had helped select the art on the walls, the Italian marble for the entry hall, and the dark leather furniture in the library. Walking back through those private elevator doors felt like stepping into a ghostly memory of a life that had been violently interrupted.

The elevator chimed open.

Roman stepped out first, his hand firmly holding mine, his fingers interwoven with my own.

Standing in the grand marble foyer were ten armed men in tactical gear. At the center of the group stood Vincent Caruso.

The moment the elevator doors opened, Vincent’s eyes widened in utter shock as he saw me standing beside Roman, my clothes soaked from the rain, my hand locked in his boss's grip.

"Roman..." Vincent stammered, taking a step forward, his hand resting nervously on his sidearm. "You... you found her? Is she under arrest? Should I call the holding team?"

Roman didn't answer immediately. He walked forward, dragging me gently beside him, his eyes sweeping across the tactical team.

"Where are the children, Vincent?" Roman asked, his voice entirely flat, devoid of any emotion.

"They're in the east guest suite, sir," Vincent replied quickly, his eyes darting suspiciously toward me. "We have two men stationed outside the door, just as you ordered. Roman, you shouldn't be near her. The Marcones could be using her to—"

"Quiet," Roman said.

The single word cut through the grand foyer like a guillotine blade. The ten guards immediately went silent, sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere.

Roman walked over to the heavy oak doors leading to the east guest suite. He pushed them open.

Inside, the room was warm and brightly lit.

Sitting on a massive leather sofa were my three children.

A young female housemaid was serving them hot chocolate and warm pastries. Luca was sitting upright, his dark eyes watching the door like a soldier on watch. Mara was happily eating a chocolate croissant, while Sophia was methodically inspecting a heavy crystal vase on the side table, testing its weight.

The moment the doors opened, all three children looked up.

"Mom!" Mara cried out, sliding off the sofa and running across the hardwood floor.

I broke away from Roman’s grip, dropping to my knees on the floor as my daughters and son slammed into my arms. I wrapped my arms around all three of them, burying my face in their hair, breathing in the sweet, familiar smell of warm chocolate and soap.

"Are you okay?" I whispered desperately, checking their faces, their arms, their hands. "Did anyone hurt you? Did anyone touch you?"

"We're fine, Mom," Luca said, though his eyes drifted past me to the towering figure of Roman standing in the doorway. "The old man with the gun tried to ask us questions, but we didn't tell him anything about South Bend."

Roman stepped into the room. He slowly dropped to one knee beside us, his massive frame towering over the small circle we formed on the floor.

Luca looked at Roman, his jaw set in that familiar Duca stubbornness. "Did you read the paper?"

"I read it," Roman said softly, reaching out to touch Luca’s cheek.

This time, Luca didn't pull back. He looked into Roman’s eyes, searching for something. "Are you going to send our mother away again?"

Roman’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. He looked over the heads of our children, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"No," Roman said, his voice deep, gravelly, and absolute. "Your mother is never leaving this house again. And anyone who tries to take her away will have to go through me first."

Sophia looked at Roman thoughtfully, wiping chocolate from her mouth with the back of her hand. "You're bigger than the pictures Mom kept in her drawer."

Roman froze. He looked at me, a flicker of raw, emotional vulnerability flashing in his dark eyes. "You kept pictures of me?"

I looked away, my cheeks flushing warm despite myself. "They were for the children. They needed to know what their father looked like."

"You told them about me?" Roman whispered, his hand coming up to rest gently over mine where I was holding Mara.

"I told them the truth," I said softly. "I told them their father was a powerful man who made a terrible mistake. But I told them he was a Duca. And Ducas don't break."

Before Roman could answer, Vincent stepped up to the doorway of the guest suite, his face pale, his radio buzzing loudly against his shoulder.

"Roman," Vincent interrupted, his voice tight with sudden tension. "We have a problem. Mateo Moretti just pulled into the basement garage with eight armored vehicles. He says he received an anonymous tip that an intruder breached the penthouse."

Roman stood up slowly, the soft, fatherly warmth vanishing from his face in an instant, replaced by the terrifying, cold authority of the Duca syndicate Don.

He looked down at me and the children.

"Stay in this room," Roman commanded. "Lock the doors from the inside. Do not open them for anyone except me."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a sleek, matte-black handgun, and handed it to me.

"You still remember how to use this?" Roman asked, his eyes burning into mine.

I took the weapon, checked the chamber with a practiced clack, and clicked the safety off.