The restaurant around Elina felt as though it had been vacuumed of all oxygen. Her lungs burned, yet she could not draw a full breath.

The grand ballroom of the Moretti estate had been converted into a tribunal hall.

Seventeen men—the capos, elders, and regional bosses of the Chicago syndicate—sat around the massive mahogany table in absolute, trembling silence.

At the head of the table sat Dante Moretti. His shoulder was bandaged beneath a fresh black suit, his face cold and impassive. But it wasn't Dante that had the hardened criminals sweating through their silk ties; it was the woman standing beside him.

Elena Moretti wore a tailored black dress that clung to her frame like armor. Her dark hair was swept back in a sharp knot, her eyes gleaming with icy, unforgiving authority. In her arms, little Leo sat quietly, chewing on a silver teething ring bearing the Moretti family crest.

"The Castellano family made a miscalculation," Elena’s voice rang out through the cavernous hall, clear, steady, and carrying the weight of absolute command. "They thought by wiping my memory and scattering my family, the Moretti empire would crumble. They thought my husband would break."

She stepped forward, placing her hands flat on the polished mahogany table and leaning over it like a judge pronouncing a death sentence.

"They were wrong," Elena continued. "Effective immediately, the Castellano territories in the south and west districts are forfeit. Their assets belong to the Moretti syndicate. Any man in this room who questions that order, or who doubts my return, is welcome to stand up and speak now."

Not a single man moved. Several of the older capos lowered their eyes, nodding in deep, submissive respect. They knew the legends of Elena Moretti—the woman who had engineered half of Dante’s corporate acquisitions and negotiated peace treaties at gunpoint before her disappearance.

"Meeting adjourned," Dante said smoothly, standing up and offering his arm to his wife.

As the syndicate bosses scrambled out of the room like scolded schoolboys, Dante led Elena and their son out through the French doors toward the sunlit back gardens.

The storm of the previous night had vanished, leaving behind a brilliant, crisp autumn morning. The wet grass sparkled in the sunlight, and the high iron gates gleamed with fresh black paint where the damage had already been repaired.

Little Leo let out a happy gurgle, reaching out to catch a falling red maple leaf as it drifted past his nose.

Dante stopped near the edge of the stone fountain, pulling Elena against his side. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her skin—real, permanent, and untouchable.

"Well, Mrs. Moretti," Dante murmured against her ear, a rare, genuine smile curving his lips. "That beats waiting tables by a mile."