The maid's four-year-old screamed that his baby was locked in a hot car, and what the mafia boss found by the wall shattered his family

Three weeks later, the heat wave broke. A cool breeze swept off the Wilmington River, rustling the Spanish moss and scattering dried leaves across the stone terrace of the Mercer estate.

The east perimeter wall was gone.

Dean had ordered the ancient brick wall knocked down, opening the estate to the sunlit waters of the river. Where the blind spot and the gravel lane had once been, a sprawling children's garden was under construction, complete with wooden swing sets, a sandbox, and flowering azalea bushes.

In the center of the terrace, a large white table was laid out for lunch.

Dean walked out of the French doors carrying Owen on his hip. The boy was dressed in denim overalls, his chubby legs kicking energetically as he reached for a passing butterfly. Owen had gained two pounds since the incident, his cheeks round and rosy with vibrant health.

Sitting at the table was Grace, reviewing architectural sketches for the new pediatric clinic the Mercer Foundation was establishing in downtown Savannah.

"The board approved the location on Abercorn," Grace said, looking up with a warm smile. "Dr. Finch agreed to serve as the chief medical director."

"Good," Dean said, sitting beside her and settling Owen into a high chair. "And the name?"

Grace’s eyes softened. "The Lily Walker Children’s Health Center. Lily told her entire kindergarten class this morning that she owns a hospital now."

Dean laughed—a rich, deep sound that had become a familiar presence in the house over the past month.

Across the lawn, Lily was running with Silas Thorne. The scarred, terrifying enforcer was currently down on one knee on the grass, holding a wooden tongue depressor between his teeth while Lily solemnly listened to his elbow with a brand-new, real pediatric stethoscope Dean had custom-ordered from Germany, engraved with *Dr. Lily* on the bell.

"You have very strong bones, Mr. Silas," Lily announced loudly. "You are allowed to have a cookie."

Silas spat out the tongue depressor, chuckling as he wiped his brow. "Thank you, Doctor. I was getting worried."

Dean watched them, his arm casually resting along the back of Grace’s chair.

Over the past three weeks, Grace had moved into the main house permanently. What had started as an arrangement of gratitude and protection had blossomed into something neither of them had anticipated. In Grace, Dean found a steady, unyielding grace that grounded his turbulent world; in Dean, Grace found a protector who treated her and her daughter with profound, unshakable reverence.

Dean reached out, his hand gently covering Grace’s fingers where they rested on the table.

Grace didn't pull away. She turned her hand, her fingers intertwining with his, her thumb lightly tracing the healed scars on his knuckles—the marks from the day he had shattered glass to save his son.

"Are you happy, Dean?" she asked softly.

Dean looked at Owen, who was merrily smearing mashed sweet potatoes across his tray; he looked at Lily, who was currently attempting to take Silas’s blood pressure with a garden hose; and then he looked into Grace’s clear, hazel eyes.