"I had an engagement ring in my pocket when I heard the voice of the woman I lost six years ago—and then I saw the four children standing beside her.

By mid-afternoon, the clouds over Dover had thickened into a heavy, suffocating grey.

The press conference at the State House had been a spectacle. Senator Arthur Barrett, flanked by two state representatives and his daughter Sloane—dramatically adorned in black mourning clothes as if someone had died—publicly condemned the “corrupt criminal elements holding Boston hostage.”

In the privacy of my study, the secure television played the broadcast on mute.

“He’s bluffing,” Anthony said, pacing the Persian rug. “The port authority is tied to our union bosses. If Barrett pushes too hard, the longshoremen walk out by midnight. The entire harbor shuts down.”

“He isn't bluffing on his own,” I said, reviewing the financial sheets on my desk. “Barrett is a politician. Politicians don't pull the pin on a grenade unless someone promises to build them a bunker. Who met with him this morning?”

Marco leaned over the desk, dropping a surveillance folder in front of me. “Our tail spotted a black Lincoln leaving the Barrett estate in Chestnut Hill at dawn. Registered to an import-export company in Revere.”

My eyes narrowed as I flipped the folder open. The photograph showed a man with silver hair and a heavy camel-hair coat stepping into the car.

Salvatore Moretti. My uncle.

“The old viper,” Anthony hissed, leaning over my shoulder. “He’s making a play. He’s using Barrett’s political leverage to split the syndicate from the inside.”

“He thinks I’ve lost my mind over a woman,” I murmured, closing the file with a quiet snap. “He thinks the broken engagement means the Moretti line has no legitimate succession, leaving him as the natural patriarch.”

A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door.

It wasn't a guard.

The door creaked open, and four small heads poked inside. Lucas, the quiet observer, stepped in first, clutching a wooden model ship he had found in the library. Behind him came Matteo, Julian, and Leo.

“Mom said we shouldn't bother you,” Leo announced, marching toward the desk with total confidence. “But Julian broke the propeller on the boat and said you could fix it because you’re the boss.”

Anthony looked at the children, then looked at me, a rare, genuine grin breaking through his exhaustion. “Well, Don Dominic. Looks like your first crisis of the day has arrived.”

I gestured for Anthony and Marco to give us the room. They slipped out quietly, closing the door behind them.

I pushed the intelligence dossiers and assassination threats aside, resting my elbows on the mahogany surface. “Bring it here, Lucas.”

The four boys swarmed the desk. Lucas carefully handed the wooden schooner to me. The miniature brass propeller was indeed bent sideways.

I reached into my desk drawer, pulled out a small set of jeweler's pliers, and went to work. The boys watched with rapt attention, four pairs of identical eyes tracking every movement of my fingers.

“Did you make this ship?” Matteo asked, his chin resting on the edge of the leather desk blotter.

“My grandfather gave it to me when I was six,” I replied, carefully straightening the brass blade without snapping the pin. “Just like you.”

“Were you six once?” Julian asked, sounding genuinely skeptical.

“I was,” I said, looking up at him with a faint smile. “Though I didn't have three brothers to back me up. I only had your Uncle Anthony, and he was terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Leo is terrible at secrets,” Julian volunteered immediately. “He told Mom I hid the broccoli in my socks.”

“You did hide it in your socks!” Leo retorted indignantly. “It was gross!”

“Quiet,” I said softly.

All four boys instantly fell silent. It wasn't fear; it was respect. A natural authority that pulsed through the blood in their veins.

I handed the ship back to Lucas. The propeller spun smoothly with a flick of his small thumb.

“Fixed,” I said.

Lucas looked at the ship, then looked up at me. Without warning, he reached out his arms and hugged my neck, burying his face into the lapel of my suit jacket.

Every muscle in my body seized. For a second, the lethal head of the Boston syndicate didn't know what to do. Then, slowly, my arms wrapped around the small boy, pulling him against my chest. His heart beat fast and light against my ribs, a tiny, furious reminder of life, of hope, of everything I had spent thirty-seven years failing to understand.

Over Lucas’s shoulder, I saw Elena standing in the open doorway.

Her arms were crossed, but her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. She saw the ruthless Don holding her son like a piece of spun glass.

The intercom on my desk buzzed, shattering the silence.