THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE CONCRETE STAIRS

Roman didn't scream. He didn't break down.

His face transformed into something ancient and terrifying. The protective father was gone. The ruthless king of Chicago had resurrected in an instant.

“Roman—” I started.

“Get in the car,” Roman said. His voice was a dead, flat calm that chilled me to the bone.

Four hours later, we were on a private jet funded by the US Marshals, tearing through the sky toward Illinois. Sara sat across from me, clutching Roman’s hand so tightly her knuckles were white. She had wept until she physically couldn't cry anymore.

“I thought if I told you, Blair would kill him,” Sara whispered brokenly, resting her forehead against Roman’s shoulder. “He was so fragile, Roman. He lived in an incubator. I just wanted to protect him.”

“I know, my love,” Roman said softly, kissing her hair. “I know.”

We landed in Chicago under the cover of darkness. The city that had nearly destroyed us welcomed us back with a torrential downpour.

A black tactical SUV was waiting on the tarmac. Roman drove. He didn't speak a single word the entire forty-mile drive to Oakhaven.

When we pulled up to the assisted living facility, the front doors were shattered.

The security guard at the front desk was slumped over, unconscious.

“Stay behind me,” Roman ordered, drawing a heavy SIG Sauer from his waistband.

We moved silently down the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallways. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break my ribs. We reached the basement door. The lock had been blown off.

Roman kicked the door open.

We rushed down the stairwell into the hidden pediatric ward. It was a massive room filled with medical equipment, heart monitors, and sterile plastic tents.

At the far end of the room, standing over a glowing pediatric incubator, was Blair Whitmore.

She was wearing a stolen paramedic uniform, completely soaked in rain. In her right hand, she held a syringe filled with a cloudy, lethal liquid.

“Stop!” Roman roared, leveling his gun directly at her head.

Blair turned. Her face was gaunt, her eyes manic and hollow. She smiled a broken, deranged smile.

“You’re too late, Roman,” Blair laughed, holding the syringe over the baby’s IV line. “The throne is mine. It was always supposed to be mine!”

“Drop the syringe, Blair,” Roman ordered, his finger tightening on the trigger. “I swear to God, I will put a bullet through your eyes.”

“Do it,” Blair taunted, moving the needle closer to the tube. “Shoot me. But my hand will spasm, and this poison goes right into his little veins.”

Roman froze. He couldn't risk the shot.

Sara let out a gut-wrenching wail. “Blair, please! He’s just a baby! Take my life! Let him live!”

Blair’s eyes gleamed with cruel triumph. She raised her hand to plunge the needle into the port.

But she made one fatal mistake.

She forgot about the housekeeper.

I hadn't stopped moving when Roman aimed his gun. I had slipped behind the rows of heavy medical oxygen tanks lining the wall.

As Blair brought the needle down, I grabbed a heavy steel wrench used to tighten the oxygen valves, stepped out from the shadows behind her, and swung it with the force of a thousand angry prayers.

The heavy steel cracked violently against the side of Blair’s knee.

Her leg snapped with a sickening crunch. Blair shrieked in absolute agony, collapsing to the floor. The syringe flew from her hand, shattering harmlessly against the linoleum wall.

Roman crossed the room in a blur, kicking the broken glass away and pinning Blair to the floor with his boot on her chest.

Sara rushed to the incubator, falling to her knees.

I dropped the wrench, panting, my whole body shaking. I walked over to the incubator.

Inside the warm, glowing plastic box was a tiny baby boy. He had a tuft of dark hair, just like his father. He was breathing steadily, his tiny chest rising and falling.

And resting perfectly on the top of the incubator, left there by a loving mother months ago, was the silver rosary.

Sara reached through the port holes, gently stroking the baby’s cheek. “Hi, my sweet boy. Mommy’s here. Mommy’s right here.”

Roman stood over Blair as the federal agents flooded into the room, their radios crackling. They hauled a screaming, broken Blair off the floor and dragged her out in handcuffs. This time, she would never see the sun again.

Roman holstered his weapon. He walked over to the incubator, wrapping his massive arms around Sara from behind. He looked down at his son for the very first time. Tears streamed freely down the mafia king’s face.

“What’s his name?” Roman whispered, his voice cracking.

Sara looked up at him, smiling through her tears.

“Leo,” she said softly. “After the brother who tried to save us in the alley.”

Roman nodded, pressing his forehead against the glass.

Three months later, the Arizona sun was shining bright.

I was sitting on the porch swing, holding a tiny, healthy baby boy wrapped in a blue blanket. Lily was sitting next to me, gently tickling her baby brother’s toes.

Roman and Sara were in the garden, planting rose bushes, laughing together under the open sky. My father was asleep in his chair in the shade, completely at peace.

There were no more secrets. There was no more mafia. There was no more fear.

I looked down at baby Leo. He opened his big, dark eyes and smiled up at me.