The morning sun clawed its way over the heavy limestone walls of the Duca estate, but no light ever truly warmed the high-ceilinged corridors of the third floor.

Downstairs in the study, Lorenzo Duca sat behind a massive mahogany desk carved from a single piece of dark walnut. Piled before him were ledger books, shipping manifests, and encrypted reports from ports across the Atlantic.

A sharp knock broke the silence.

"Enter," Lorenzo commanded without looking up.

The heavy door opened, and Rosa stepped inside, wringing her hands together so tightly her knuckles were white. She looked terrified, her eyes fixed firmly on the Persian rug beneath her feet.

"Mr. Duca," Rosa whispered, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "I... I am so, so sorry to disturb you, sir."

Lorenzo finally raised his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Speak, girl. What is it?"

"My son, Mateo... he wandered off from the kitchen about an hour ago. We searched everywhere downstairs, and... and I think he might have gone up the back stairs. I know the third floor is strictly forbidden, I swear on my life I didn't mean for him to go up there, please don't—"

Lorenzo stood up so fast his leather chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. The air in the room instantly chilled. The mere mention of the third floor—of anyone approaching Lucas’s sanctuary—was enough to trigger the volatile fury that kept his empire under his thumb.

"You lost a child in my house?" Lorenzo’s voice was a low, dangerous growl that echoed off the stone walls.

Rosa dropped to her knees, tears spilling over her eyelashes. "Please, Mr. Duca! He's only two! He doesn't understand rules! Punish me, throw me out, do whatever you want, just let me find my boy!"

Lorenzo stared down at her. He saw the genuine, raw agony in her posture—the same agony that clawed at his own chest every single day since Isabella died. He clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms.

"Get up," Lorenzo ordered coldly.

He strode past her, his long legs eating up the distance to the grand staircase. Rosa scrambled to her feet and hurried after him, her heart in her throat.

When Lorenzo reached the third-floor landing, he pushed open Lucas’s door without knocking.

The scene that met his eyes froze him dead in his tracks.

The room was bathed in the soft amber glow of the lamp. In the center of the massive, sterile bed, Lucas was propped up against a pile of pillows. Cradled comfortably in his arms was little Mateo, who was awake now and happily chewing on the corner of Captain the teddy bear, while Lucas smiled—a genuine, weak, but unmistakable smile—as he tried to feed the toddler a spoonful of water from a plastic cup.

Rosa, rushing in right behind Lorenzo, gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. "Mateo! Oh, sweet Jesus, I am so sorry, Mr. Duca, I'll take him right now—"

She lunged forward to grab her son, but Lorenzo held up a single hand, stopping her dead in her tracks.

Lorenzo walked slowly into the room. His eyes were fixed entirely on his son. In the three years since Isabella’s death, Lorenzo had never seen Lucas smile. He had seen him cry, he had seen him rage, he had seen him slip into silent, terrifying catatonia, but he had never seen that light in his son's eyes.

Mateo looked up at the towering, terrifying mafia boss, blinked his big brown eyes, and then let out a cheerful gurgle, pointing directly at Lorenzo’s silver tie.

"Dada?" Mateo babbled innocently, tilting his head.

A strange, suffocating lump formed in Lorenzo’s throat. He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at the two children.

Lucas looked up at his father, his eyes shining with a quiet, fierce courage. "He didn't hurt anything, Dad. He just... he came to keep me company."

Lorenzo didn't yell. For the first time in years, the violence inside him quieted, replaced by something deep, heavy, and profound. He reached out a large, calloused hand—the same hand that held the fate of the East Coast underworld—and gently touched Mateo’s dark curls.

"He stays," Lorenzo said quietly.