The child was screaming so hard the chandelier trembled. His father had a gun on the table, a room full of terrified guests, and no idea how to hold a broken little boy.

Two weeks after the truth about Elena came out, a sense of peace settled over the estate. The Marcones were gone, the threats neutralized, and for the first time, Rico began taking time off from his "business."

He spent mornings eating breakfast with Leo and evenings walking through the sprawling gardens with Clara.

The distance between the mob boss and the former waitress melted away, replaced by an intense, undeniable pull. Every touch felt electric; every shared glance held a unspoken promise.

It was a warm Saturday evening. Leo was fast asleep upstairs after an exhausting afternoon playing in the backyard pool.

Clara stood on the stone balcony overlooking the illuminated pool, holding a glass of white wine. The summer breeze blew her loose hair around her neck.

She heard soft footsteps behind her. Rico stepped onto the balcony, dressed casually in a black linen shirt with the top buttons undone. He stepped up beside her, his arms resting on the stone railing, his shoulder brushing against hers.

"You look beautiful tonight, Clara," Rico said softly, looking at her profile instead of the view.

Clara flushed, smiling into her glass. "Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself, Mr. Moretti."

"Rico," he corrected gently. "When we're like this, just Rico."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the crickets chirping in the garden below.

"I never thanked you," Rico said, turning his body toward her. "For what you did the night of the attack. For standing by me when you knew the truth about Elena."

"You don't need to thank me," Clara said, turning to face him. "I care about Leo. And... I care about you."

Rico stepped closer, closing the small gap between them. The warmth of his body radiated against hers. He raised his hand, his thumb gently tracing her jawline, moving up to touch her soft lips.

"I haven't felt alive in a very long time, Clara," Rico murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Since you walked into that restaurant, you changed everything. My son has a life. My house is a home. And I..." He paused, his dark eyes searching hers. "I can't stop thinking about you."

Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. "Rico..."

"Tell me to stop, and I will walk away," Rico whispered, his head dipping lower, his breath warm against her mouth. "Tell me you don't feel this."

Clara didn't tell him to stop. Instead, she reached up, winding her hands into his dark hair, and pulled him down to her.

Their lips met in a deep, fiery kiss that had been building for weeks. Rico let out a low groan, wrapping his strong arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. The kiss was desperate, tender, and possessive all at once—a merging of two broken souls finding healing in each other's warmth.

When they finally broke apart for air, Clara rested her forehead against his chest, listening to his rapid heartbreak.