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

For the next two hours, the world outside Isabella's office ceased to exist.

We made a pact in the dark. No one outside that room could know the truth. Not the estate security team, not the other housekeepers, and certainly not the syndicate lieutenants who occasionally visited the lower gates to check on Lorenzo's condition.

"From this moment on," Isabella instructed as she unlocked the door, "Mia stays in your private quarters on the third floor. You do not leave her unattended for a single second."

"And Mr. Moretti?" I asked, looking up toward the ceiling where the forbidden medical wing lay.

Elena Whitmore stepped forward, pulling the printed cardiac strip from her coat pocket. "The doctors said Lorenzo’s brain activity was completely stagnant. But when Mia sang, his brainstem showed a spike in neurological response. His subconscious recognized her voice—or perhaps the cadence of the song Julianna used to sing."

"Julianna sang 'You Are My Sunshine' to Lorenzo when they were children," Isabella revealed softly, a rare glint of warmth touching her eyes. "It was the only song that comforted him after their parents died."

I looked down at my hands. The silver anchor pendant felt cold against my palm.

"I need to see him," I said suddenly.

Isabella frowned. "Clara, the medical wing is guarded—"

"I am her mother," I said firmly, finding a reserve of strength I didn't know I possessed. "If my daughter's life is tied to that man waking up, I need to look him in the eye."

Ten minutes later, Elena escorted me through the heavy reinforced doors of the second-floor medical wing.

The room was vast, filled with the rhythmic beep-beep-beep of heart monitors, the mechanical hiss of a ventilator, and the faint scent of antiseptic.

In the center of the room lay Lorenzo Moretti.

Without his tailored suits and imposing reputation, he looked remarkably fragile. Dark hair brushed back from a pale, scarred forehead. Sharp jawline shadowed by several days of dark stubble. Long, calloused hands resting motionless on the white sheets.

I walked slowly to the side of the bed, staring down at the man whose blood ran through my daughter's veins.

"Lorenzo," I whispered, reaching out to touch the cold railing of the bed. "Your niece is downstairs. She sang to you yesterday. If you can hear me... you need to wake up. We can't protect her alone."