Five wealthy women brought extravagant gifts to win over a mafia boss's son, but the boy walked past them all to take the nanny's hand.

Two nights after the Bellini confrontation, the autumn skies opened up into a catastrophic storm. Gale-force winds tore through the valley, knocking out the primary power grid and forcing the manor onto backup diesel generators.

At two in the morning, Hannah was awakened by a whimpering sound through the baby monitor.

She threw on a warm robe and hurried into Matteo’s room. The boy was thrashing against his sheets, his face flushed bright scarlet, his skin burning to the touch.

"Matteo?" Hannah whispered, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.

He was scorching. A severe febrile spike.

"Cold..." Matteo groaned, tears leaking from his closed eyes. "Hannah... it burns."

"I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here," she said, quickly lifting him into her arms.

She carried him out into the hall, shouting for the guards. "Get Dr. Thorne! Now! Matteo has a fever over a hundred and three!"

Lucas appeared within seconds, bare-chested under a heavy silk robe, his eyes alert. "What happened?"

"He's burning up," Hannah said, her voice shaking with urgency. "We need the physician."

Lucas tapped his earpiece, barking orders. But when the head of security replied, Lucas's expression darkened. "The access road on the bluff collapsed during the mudslide. The doctor's car is stuck three miles down the mountain. The storm won't let a helicopter lift off."

Hannah didn't waste time panicking. "Then we handle it ourselves. Get me rubbing alcohol, clean towels, a bowl of lukewarm water, and children's liquid acetaminophen from the medical cabinet. Hurry!"

For the next four hours, the terrifying don of the Moretti syndicate did not give orders. He took them.

Hannah sat on the bathroom floor, stripping Matteo down to his undershirt, gently sponging his hot skin with damp cloths to bring the temperature down without shocking his system. She measured the medicine with steady hands, coaxing the semi-conscious boy to swallow it drop by drop.

Lucas knelt beside her, wringing out towels, holding his son’s trembling hands when the shivering grew violent.

"Stay with me, buddy," Lucas whispered, his deep voice cracking—a sound Hannah never thought she would hear. "Look at your dad. Look at Hannah. You're going to be fine."

"He's going to be fine, Lucas," Hannah said softly, reaching over with one wet hand to touch the side of Lucas's face. The gesture was purely instinctual, born of shared grief and desperate care. "He's strong. Just like you."

Lucas closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth of her palm for just a fraction of a second, letting down the fortress walls he had built around his soul for years.

By five in the morning, the fever broke.

Matteo’s breathing evened out, his skin cooled to a mild warmth, and he curled into a deep, restful sleep against Hannah's chest. Exhausted, Hannah leaned her head back against the edge of the porcelain bathtub, her eyes heavy.

Lucas gently lifted his sleeping son, carried him back to his bed, and tucked the blankets around him.

When he returned to the bathroom, Hannah was struggling to stand, her limbs trembling from sheer exhaustion.

Before she could fall, Lucas’s arms were around her. He lifted her effortlessly, holding her against his broad, muscular chest.

"Lucas... I can walk," she murmured weakly.

"Be quiet, Hannah," he said gently, carrying her down the hall toward her bedroom. He laid her down on the plush mattress, pulled the heavy duvet over her shoulders, and sat on the edge of the bed.

He looked down at her in the dim light of dawn, his thumb softly brushing away a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

"No one has ever fought for him like that," Lucas whispered, his dark eyes luminous with an emotion he could no longer hide. "No one but Elena."

"He's worth fighting for," Hannah whispered, her eyelids fluttering shut.