The most feared mafia boss in Chicago came home three hours early and found his housekeeper secretly feeding four identical little boys at the dining table no one had touched since his wife died

Spring had arrived in Chicago.

The harsh winter winds had given way to warm sunlight, green grass, and blooming trees along the lakefront.

Moretti Manor had been completely rebuilt. The bullet holes had been patched, the shattered glass replaced with reinforced crystal, and the high stone walls surrounding the estate were now covered in lush green ivy and vibrant roses.

The house was no longer silent. It was no longer a mausoleum dedicated to grief and dead memories.

From the second-floor balcony, the sounds of laughter and splashing water echoed across the sunny backyard.

I stood near the french doors, wearing a simple linen shirt and trousers, holding a glass of iced tea, watching my four sons play in the newly installed swimming pool.

Leo, now five years old, was bravely diving off the low board, while Mateo and Julian splashed each other near the shallow steps. Nico was sitting on the edge, laughing hysterically as Marco—my terrifying head of enforcement—wore a ridiculous bright pink inflatable flamingo ring, pretending to be a sea monster chasing them through the water.

Viktor "The Bear" Volkov was sitting at a patio table nearby, carefully grilling burgers, wearing an apron that read WORLD'S BEST UNCLE—a gift the boys had bought him at the local market.

Elena walked out onto the balcony, carrying a tray of fresh lemonade and fruit. She looked younger now, the lines of worry and fear that had carved her face for four years completely smoothed away by peace.

"They're getting fast," Elena smiled, watching Leo swim across the deep end. "They're going to be trouble when they grow up, Alejandro."

"Good," I smiled softly, taking a sip of my tea. "Moretti men are supposed to be trouble."

"Did you hear from the New York families today?" she asked softly.

"Carmine retired last week," I replied, turning to look at her. "He handed his seat to his nephew. The street wars are over, Elena. The new alliance holds the entire coast. There are no more shadow councils. No more Apex. No more threats."

For the first time in twenty years, the underworld of North America was stable, unified under a single, ironclad law: Nobody touches family.

Mateo suddenly looked up from the pool, saw me standing on the balcony, and pointed his small finger at me, shouting at the top of his lungs:

"Daddy! Look! I can touch the bottom!"