Part 2: Hours before proposing to another woman, a mob boss walked into a restaurant restroom and found four six-year-old boys who shared his exact face.

The Manchester-by-the-Sea estate was built by my great-grandfather in 1922. Perched high upon granite cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, it was less of a mansion and more of a private fortress. Ten-foot stone walls, private beach access, state-of-the-art surveillance grids, and a private garrison of forty men loyal exclusively to me, not the family council.

The heavy wrought-iron gates swung open to admit the three black Escalades of my convoy just as the clock struck three in the morning.

The boys had fallen asleep in the back of the SUV, exhausted by the terror of the night. Leo was curled up with his head on Clara’s lap, while Mateo and Luca leaned against each other like bookends. Nico had fallen asleep gripping the sleeve of my leather jacket, his tiny fist clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

The car stopped before the grand marble portico. The estate was ablaze with light.

A dozen armed guards in black tactical gear snapped to attention as I stepped out into the crisp sea air.

"Clear the halls," I commanded the head of security. "Have the west wing prepared. Four bedrooms, warm food, and medical staff on standby."

"Right away, Don Moretti."

I leaned into the back seat and scooped Leo and Nico into my arms at the same time. Their small bodies were light, warm, and utterly defenseless against my chest. A feeling so fierce and protective rose inside my throat that it made it hard to breathe.

Marcus helped Clara out, carrying Mateo and Luca behind me.

Clara walked into the grand foyer, her eyes taking in the towering ceilings, the crystal chandeliers, the priceless oil paintings, and the limestone floors. It was a world she had never known, a world of unimaginable wealth built upon a foundation of violence.

"They're going to hate this," she murmured, her voice raw.

"They'll be safe here," I said, leading her up the sweeping curved staircase toward the residential suites. "That's the only thing that matters right now."

I laid Leo and Nico down on a king-sized bed covered in goose-down comforters. Marcus brought in the other two, gently placing them beside their brothers. Within seconds, the four boys had instinctively curled into a tight knot in the center of the bed, sharing warmth just as they had done in their mother's womb.

Clara stood by the bedside, gently pulling the heavy velvet blanket over their shoulders. She brushed a strand of dark hair from Mateo's forehead.

"You really didn't know," she said quietly, without looking at me. It wasn't a question anymore. It was an admission.

"If I had known," I said, standing in the doorway with my hands in my pockets, "I would have burned Boston to the ground six years ago to find you."

She closed her eyes, a shudder running through her frame. "Your father showed me pictures, Dominic. Pictures of you laughing with Sloane Harrington at a yacht club. He said you were already planning the wedding. He said I was just a distraction you indulged in during the summer."

"My father was a sociopath," I said bitterly. "He used Sloane's father to launder our port money. He set up those photographs. I never touched Sloane. I never wanted her."

Clara turned around, looking at my blood-stained shirt. "You're bleeding."

"It's just a scratch."