My three-year-old broke the estate's absolute rule and entered the forbidden medical wing, completely unaware of who was lying inside.

That night, Lorenzo left Montauk, returning to New York City accompanied by forty armed men loyal to the old Moretti council.

I stayed at the coast house with Mia, watching the news on the burner phone as the final pieces of the Moretti war played out in the shadows.

Matteo Moretti had attempted to seize control of the family's shipping docks in Brooklyn, claiming Lorenzo was brain-damaged and unfit to lead. But when Lorenzo walked into the council meeting room in Manhattan—standing tall, unassisted, with Isabella and the entire family board behind him—Matteo’s rebellion collapsed in five minutes.

The family lieutenants, disgusted by Matteo's attempt to kill Lorenzo and his plot to murder Julianna's child, turned on him instantly.

By midnight, a brief text arrived from Isabella:

“Matteo and his associates have been permanently removed from the state. The Moretti house is secure. Lorenzo is coming back to Montauk tomorrow.”

I sat on the porch in the quiet moonlight, listening to the ocean waves, holding Mia’s sleeping form in my lap.

For eighteen months, I had lived in terror—terrified of landlord notices, terrified of medical bills, terrified of losing my daughter to a world that didn't care about poor women working night shifts in laundry rooms.

Tonight, for the very first time in my life, the terror was gone.