Part 2: My daughter didn't cry when I told her we couldn't afford thirty-eight-dollar shoes, but her gentle response caused New York's most feared mafia boss to immediately halt his entire day.

By the end of the week, the atmosphere on the estate had subtly shifted. Dominic’s security detail had doubled. Black SUVs patrolled the perimeter gates at all hours, their engines humming low in the night.

Yet inside the main house, preparations were underway for the annual Moretti Foundation Winter Gala—a massive high-society charity event Dominic hosted every year at the St. Regis in Manhattan to maintain his legitimate public standing.

"You're coming with him," Elena declared that Friday afternoon, tossing a breathtaking emerald green satin gown onto the bed in my cottage room.

"Elena, no," I protested, holding my hands up. "I'm your assistant. I can't attend a billionaire's gala!"

"You are not my servant, Sarah," Elena said firmly, tapping her cane on the floor. "You are the woman who brought life back into this mausoleum. My son hasn't stayed for dinner four nights in a row since his niece died. Now he comes home every evening just to see if you smiled today."

My cheeks burned red. "Dominic is just being generous—"

"Dominic doesn't have a generous bone in his body," Elena snorted. "He has an honorable one. There is a very big difference. Now put on the dress. I’ve already arranged for Maria to watch Rosie upstairs."

Two hours later, standing in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognized myself. The emerald dress hugged my curves gracefully, flowing down to the floor like liquid jewel, masking the exhaustion of four brutal years. My dark hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, and a pair of delicate diamond earrings—loaned by Elena—sparkled at my ears.

When I stepped into the foyer of the main house, Dominic was waiting at the foot of the sweeping staircase.

He wore a custom black tuxedo, looking impeccably handsome, powerful, and utterly dangerous. As he looked up and saw me, the words died in his throat. His gray eyes dilated, roving slowly from the hem of my dress up to my face.

"You look..." Dominic paused, clearing his throat—a rare display of hesitation from a man who commanded hundreds of killers. "Breathtaking, Sarah."

"Thank you," I said softly, feeling a flutter deep in my core.

He offered me his arm. I took it, the muscle beneath his jacket rock-solid.

The St. Regis ballroom was an ocean of crystal, champagne, and high-society wealth. Senators, Wall Street titans, and European dignitaries mingled beneath towering ice sculptures. But whenever Dominic walked through the crowd, a subtle, reverent hush followed him. People bowed their heads, offering deferential smiles, stepping out of his path.

And everyone was staring at me.

"Who is she?" I heard a socialite whisper behind a champagne flute. "Is that the Moretti Don's new companion?"

"Ignore them," Dominic murmured close to my ear, his hand sliding smoothly to the small of my back. The heat of his touch seared through the satin of my dress. "They are sheep, Sarah. None of them matter."

For a few hours, the terror of the Falcones and the pain of my past melted away. Dominic never left my side. He introduced me simply as Sarah, refusing to explain my presence, daring anyone to question it. When we danced, his hand was firm against my waist, moving with effortless rhythm, holding me close enough that I could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat.

"You're smiling," he whispered as the music swelled.

"I haven't danced since I was twenty," I admitted, looking up into his dark eyes. "I forgot how it feels to just be happy."

"I will make sure you never forget again," he said. The raw, unfiltered tenderness in his gaze took my breath away.

Then, across the ballroom, near the grand arched entrance, the mood abruptly shattered.

One of Dominic’s senior lieutenants, a scarred man named Marco, stepped quickly through the crowd, his face pale and grim. He caught Dominic's eye and gave a single, sharp nod toward the private balcony.

Dominic's hand stiffened against my back. The softness in his eyes evaporated in an instant.

"Stay with Marco," Dominic told me, his voice deadly low.

"Dominic, what is it?"