Come on, darling. We need a normal child,"" the woman said

For three weeks following the court hearing, life settled into a rhythm that almost felt like safety.

I started formal physical therapy at a private clinic in White Plains, funded by the Moretti Trust. The therapist, a patient woman named Dr. Aris, worked on strengthening my core and hip stabilizers. For the first time, with the aid of light carbon-fiber braces and parallel bars, I was able to stand on my own feet for three whole minutes.

When Dominic came to watch my session, he stood at the end of the bars. He didn't cheer like a spectator; he held out his hands, two feet away from mine.

"One more step, Lily," he urged quietly. "Focus on the finish line. Don't look down at the floor."

I gritted my teeth, sweat beading on my forehead, my small legs shaking inside the braces. I moved one foot forward, dragging the brace across the rubber mat, and then the other, until my fingers gripped his leather jacket.

Dominic scooped me up into the air, laughing out loud—a sound so rare that even Marco, standing guard by the clinic door, grinned from ear to ear.

"Look at you," Dominic said, kissing my temple. "A warrior."

But while my world was growing brighter, the storms circling Dominic were darkening.

One evening in late October, the autumn winds were howling through the Bedford pines, rattling the heavy glass panes of the solarium. I was sitting at my adjustable desk, finishing a large canvas of an eagle soaring over a storm-tossed ocean.

The door opened, and Clara walked in, looking pale. "Lily, sweetheart, pack your paints. Teresa wants us to stay in the upstairs library tonight."

"Why?" I asked, looking at her wide eyes. "Is it raining too hard?"

"Just a precaution," she said, trying to smile, but her voice lacked its usual steady warmth.

Downstairs, the heavy thud of the front doors echoed, followed by the urgent sound of raised voices.

I rolled to the edge of the hallway balcony that overlooked the grand foyer. Looking down through the carved wooden banisters, I saw Dominic standing by the marble fireplace. His coat was off, his shirt stained with dark grease—or blood.

Marco was standing before him, holding an unlit cigarette, his knuckles bruised.

"Rossi hit the Queens warehouse, Dominic," Marco said, his breathing ragged. "They torched three delivery trucks and put two of our night guards in the hospital. Lucian Rossi isn't playing by the council rules anymore. He’s reckless."

Dominic didn't shout. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "Who backed him?"

"That’s the thing, Boss," Marco said, pulling out a manila folder. "Rossi’s cash reserves were dried up after the feds froze his union accounts last month. He couldn't afford the muscle to take Queens. Someone bridged his loan."

"Who?"

Marco opened the folder. "A private equity syndicate out of Manhattan. Fronted through three shell LLCs in Delaware. But we traced the primary guarantor's signature on the commercial bridge note."

Marco handed the sheet of paper to Dominic.

Dominic looked at it under the chandelier light. His eyes darkened into cold, bottomless pits.

"Richard Sterling," Dominic read aloud.

Up on the balcony, I gasped softly, clapping my hand over my mouth.

"Sterling Capital," Marco explained, his voice thick with disgust. "The guy from the adoption court. Turns out his firm was bleeding cash from bad real estate derivatives. Rossi approached Sterling three weeks ago offering forty percent interest on short-term high-risk capital. Sterling thought he was just lending money to an import business. He had no idea Rossi was using the cash to buy illegal firearms and hire mercenaries to hit our docks."

"Or maybe he did know," Dominic said quietly. "Maybe Sterling thought if Rossi took me out, his little adoption embarrassment would disappear."

"What do we do with Sterling?" Marco asked. "We have his debt papers. We bought up the secondary notes on his mortgage and his firm's credit lines yesterday through our shell corp. We can bankrupt him by tomorrow noon."

Dominic shook his head slowly. "Bankruptcy is too clean for a man like Richard Sterling. Call the regulatory compliance division at the SEC. Drop the anonymous file on his offshore margin accounts. Let the federal authorities do their job. But as for Lucian Rossi..."

Dominic reached into the drawer of the hall table and pulled out a heavy black steel object, sliding it into the shoulder holster beneath his arm.

"Rossi crossed the line when he brought violence into this borough," Dominic said. "Set up a sit-down at the neutral docks in Red Hook. Midnight."

"Dominic, it’s a trap," Marco warned. "Rossi will have shooters on the roofs."

"Of course it's a trap," Dominic replied coldly. "Which is why you’re taking the tactical team through the south pier before midnight. We don't negotiate with rabid dogs, Marco. We put them down."

As Marco turned to leave, Dominic looked up toward the balcony. His eyes locked onto mine between the wooden banisters. He knew I had heard everything.

He didn't scold me. He walked up the curved marble staircase, his heavy boots making no sound on the runner carpet, until he stood before my wheelchair.

"You shouldn't be awake, Lily," he said softly.

"Are you going to get hurt?" I asked, looking at the bulge under his jacket.

Dominic knelt down, his large, scarred hand resting on the arm of my chair. "No, princess. I’m going to protect our home."

"Don't do bad things," I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. "If you do bad things, the judge will take me away."

Dominic looked into my eyes, and for a second, I saw the immense, crushing weight he had carried on his shoulders for twenty years—the weight of violence, family duty, and survival in a world that showed no mercy.

"I won't let anyone take you, Lily," he said, his voice dropping into a solemn vow. "I give you my word. I will come back for breakfast. Seven o'clock. Pancakes with Teresa. Deal?"