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

Four days passed at the Montauk house in complete isolation.

I didn't turn on the television. I didn't use the internet. I only used the burner phone to receive one daily text message from Isabella:

“Day 1: Matteo is searching the city. Stay hidden.”

“Day 2: Lorenzo is standing. Speech returning.”

“Day 3: Lorenzo has taken back control of the estate. The council is aligned. Prepare yourself.”

On the fifth afternoon, the storm finally cleared, leaving behind a crisp, crystal-blue sky and the gentle roaring of ocean waves against the cliffs below the house.

I was in the kitchen preparing lunch for Mia when the sound of heavy tires crunching over gravel echoed outside.

My heart leaped into my throat. I grabbed the butcher knife from the counter and ran to the window, pulling the curtain back two inches.

A single heavy black SUV had pulled into the driveway.

The driver's door opened, and a large, broad-shouldered man in a tactical jacket stepped out—one of Lorenzo’s loyal private security team. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door.

A man stepped out.

He moved slowly, using an elegant silver-topped cane to support his left side, wearing a heavy black trench coat against the ocean wind. His face was pale, scarred, but his dark eyes were sharp, piercing, and terrifyingly alive.

Lorenzo Moretti.

I dropped the knife onto the rug, my breath catching in my throat.

Lorenzo walked slowly up the wooden steps of the porch. He didn't knock. He stood outside the door for several seconds, looking at the house as if seeing a ghost.

Then he spoke through the heavy oak door, his voice deep, raspy, but clear as glass.