The ambient jazz music playing through the speakers of La Terrazza was completely swallowed by the sound of a child screaming.

Two weeks passed, and the estate slowly returned to a quiet, rhythmic peace.

The damage from the attack was repaired, security was doubled, but inside the house, everything had changed. Leo was transformed. He wasn't fully healed—he still had moments of anxiety when thunder rolled over the Sound—but he was eating, playing with building blocks, and talking in short, sweet sentences.

"Clara! Look! Big truck!" Leo squealed, running across the sunlit terrace on a warm Tuesday afternoon, holding a plastic red fire engine.

I laughed, setting down my book as I sat on the garden bench. "Wow, Leo! That's a huge truck! Is it going to put out the fire?"

"Vroom!" Leo giggled, zooming the truck over the grass before collapsing into my lap, laughing brightly.

From the shade of the grand patio, Ricardo stood watching us, holding a stack of business documents. He was dressed casually in a dark polo shirt, the strict, terrifying mob boss persona melting away more and more each day he spent around us.

"You're good for him, Clara," a quiet voice said beside me.

I turned to see Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, walking over with a tray of fresh lemonade. Her initial stoic demeanor had melted over the past two weeks, replaced by a deep affection for how I had brought life back into the gloomy mansion.

"He's a sweet boy, Mrs. Gable," I said, taking a glass. "He just needed time and patience."

"It's not just Leo who's changed," Mrs. Gable noted softly, her eyes flickering toward Ricardo on the patio. "Mr. Moretti hasn't smiled like that since before Mrs. Elena died. You brought the sun back into this house, child."

My face flushed warm. "I'm just doing my job..."

"Is that all it is?" Mrs. Gable asked with a gentle, knowing smirk before turning back toward the house.

Later that evening, after Leo was tucked safely into bed, I walked down to the estate’s private library to return a book. The room was warm, lit by a crackling fireplace and floor lamps, smelling faintly of leather and mahogany.

Ricardo was sitting at his grand oak desk, reviewing financial ledgers. When he saw me step in, he closed the leather folder and stood up.

"Is Leo asleep?" he asked, walking over to the fireplace.

"Out cold," I smiled. "He ran around the garden for three hours today."

Ricardo stood by the mantelpiece, watching me as I replaced the book on the shelf. "My lawyers finalized the medical trust for your mother today. The hospital in Manhattan has already received the first payment. Her transplant surgery is scheduled for next month."

I froze, turning around to face him, my chest swelling with emotion. "Ricardo... you paid the entire amount?"

"I promised I would take care of your family," he said simply, taking a slow step toward me. "You saved my son, Clara. There is no amount of money in the world that equals what you have given back to me."

He stepped closer, stopping only inches away. The warmth of the fire cast golden light across his sharp jaw, and the subtle scent of his sandalwood cologne enveloped my senses.

"You didn't have to do that," I whispered, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs—not out of fear, but out of something far more dangerous.

"I wanted to," Ricardo murmured, his gray eyes darkening with an intense, raw emotion. He slowly reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light, sending a shiver straight down my spine. "I care about you, Clara."

My breath hitched. "Ricardo..."