629 For seven years, Max—the mafia boss’s massive Cane Corso—never barked at strangers, enemies, or even men pointing guns at his owner, but the night he suddenly broke his silence and growled at Alessandro’s own wife, the feared crime lord realized his most trusted protector had been trying to warn him all along.

By dawn, the mist over the harbor had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, spotless blue autumn sky.

The Falcone syndicate was effectively dead. With Dominic gone and his top lieutenants neutralized in a single night, Marco’s crews moved swiftly across the city, absorbing their turf, their illegal operations, and their legitimate front businesses before the sun was fully up.

At the brownstone, the cleanup was complete. Every stain had been scrubbed from the hardwood, every bullet hole patched, every trace of violence erased as if it had never happened.

Isabella sat at the kitchen island, wearing a plain coat, two suitcases resting beside her feet. She was guarded by two of Marco's men. She looked drained, her eyes hollow, the terrifying ambition that had driven her for seven years completely extinguished.

The front door opened, and I walked in, accompanied by my legal team.

I laid a thick stack of legal documents on the counter in front of her.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice raspy.

"Full sole custody papers for Mia and Enzo," my lead attorney explained smoothly. "Along with a complete, irrevocable surrender of all marital assets, a legal name change, and a signed confession detailing your involvement in international financial fraud."

Isabella looked up at me, her hands shaking. "And if I don't sign?"

"If you don't sign," I said calmly, leaning against the counter, "the video footage of you putting six drops of foxglove into my gravy goes directly to the NYPD Homicide Division. You will spend the rest of your life in a state penitentiary."

She stared at the papers, then at the pen in my hand. She realized she had no cards left to play. Her uncle was gone, her syndicate was destroyed, and her husband had survived her poison.

With a trembling hand, she took the pen and signed her name on every page.

When she finished, she looked up at me, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "Will I ever see my children again, Alessandro?"

I looked at her—the woman I had loved for seven years, the woman who had held my hand through my darkest nights, the woman who was a complete illusion.

"No," I said softly. "As far as Mia and Enzo are concerned, their mother passed away from a sudden illness. They will remember you as a saint, Isabella. That is the only mercy I will ever give you."

Marco stepped forward, taking her by the arm, and led her out the rear door toward a waiting sedan that would take her to a private airstrip out of the country, stripped of her wealth, her family name, and her past.

The brownstone was silent once more.

I walked into the study and sat down in my leather armchair. I felt a profound, bone-deep exhaustion—not from poison, but from the crushing weight of a war fought within my own home.

Max padded silently into the room. He didn't go to his bed. He walked straight to my chair, rested his massive, square head on my knee, and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

I reached down, burying my hands in his dark fur, pulling his head close against my chest.