The neon sign of the Bayou Grace Diner buzzed and flickered against the damp, heavy New Orleans night.

Two weeks later, the sun shone brightly over the French Quarter, baking the pastel-colored stucco buildings and warming the iron balconies.

The federal prosecutors in New Orleans, armed with the digital drives Donovan had seized from Petrov’s primary safehouse, had dismantled the Russian syndicate from top to bottom. Viktor Petrov and his surviving lieutenants were locked away in a supermax federal penitentiary with no chance of ever seeing the Louisiana sky again.

Inside the St. Charles estate, the nursery was finally filled with the genuine, uninhibited sounds of children playing.

Delia sat on the floor of the sunny playroom, laughing as the two boys used her legs as a climbing gym while little Lily napped peacefully in her arms.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Anton walked in.

He looked different. The haunted, exhausted shadows that had carved themselves into his face six months ago were entirely gone. In their place was a calm, grounded strength of a man who finally had his world back in order.

He walked over, kneeling down on the rug beside her. He reached out, gently lifting a lock of dark hair away from her forehead and pressing a lingering kiss to her skin.

“The federal judge signed off on the asset seizure this morning,” Anton murmured, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. “Seventy percent of Petrov’s former shipping terminals have been transferred to the Marchetti trust.”

“And what are you going to do with all those shipping terminals?” Delia asked, adjusting little Bobby as he tried to grab her necklace.

“I’m setting up a charitable foundation,” Anton said simply. “Specifically focused on infant care, maternal health, and support programs for grieving mothers at Ochsner Hospital. Funded entirely by confiscated syndicate assets.”

Delia stared at him, her throat tightening with sudden emotion. “Anton... you don't have to do that.”

“I want to,” he said softly, taking her hand in his. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, tracing the skin with reverent care. “Because without Ochsner, without the nurses who taught you how to hold broken things, you wouldn't have been there when my sons needed you. You wouldn't have been humming that song.”

“They still call me Mama,” Delia whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Because you are,” Anton said with absolute, unshakeable finality.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined jeweler’s box.

Delia’s breath hitched. She froze, looking down at the box, her heart performing a wild, acrobatic flip inside her chest.

Anton popped the lid open. Inside rested an antique diamond ring surrounded by a halo of deep blue sapphires—the exact shade of the New Orleans twilight over Lake Pontchartrain.

“When I lost Isabella, I thought my heart had turned to concrete,” Anton said, his deep voice thick with quiet emotion. “I thought I was cursed to live out my life surrounded by shadows and enemies. Then a plus-size waitress with more courage than an entire army walked into a diner, picked up a crying baby, and rewrote my entire existence.”

He looked up, locking his fierce, dark eyes onto hers.

“Marry me, Delia Marsh. Let me spend the rest of my life proving to you that you are safe, cherished, and loved beyond measure.”

From the floor, little Bobby let out a gleeful squeal, clapping his hands together and echoing with crystal clarity:

“Mama! Mama, yes!”