Chapter 8

The gunshot echoed through the grand foyer, a deafening crack that shattered the chaos.

On the monitor, I saw Luca flinch, his body jerking backward against the heavy oak banister.

“LUCA!” I screamed, my voice tearing my throat, but the soundproof panic room swallowed my cries.

Grace began to wail in the dark, terrified by my panic.

But before Vanessa could fire a second shot, the FBI swarmed her. An agent tackled her to the marble floor, ripping the silver revolver from her manicured hands.

Arthur Vance tried to run, his limp slowing him down just enough for Marco—who had snuck in behind the federal agents—to tackle him through a glass side-table.

The foyer dissolved into a frenzy of shouting, zip-ties, and handcuffs.

I kept my eyes glued to the screen.

Luca was slumped against the banister.

Then, slowly, miraculously, he pushed himself up.

He ripped open his shirt. Buried deep in the thick Kevlar of his tactical vest was a single, flattened silver bullet.

He was breathing heavily, but he was alive.

Tears of pure, overwhelming relief flooded my face. I scooped Grace into my arms, sobbing into her shoulder.

“He’s okay, baby,” I wept, rocking her back and forth. “Daddy is okay.”

Ten minutes later, the heavy steel door of the panic room slid open.

Luca stood in the doorway, smelling of smoke and adrenaline. He looked at us, his eyes softening instantly. He dropped to his knees and opened his arms.

I didn’t hesitate.

I scrambled off the cot, carrying Grace, and collapsed into his embrace. He wrapped his massive arms around both of us, burying his face in my neck, inhaling shaking breaths.

“You’re safe,” he whispered fiercely, kissing the top of my head, then Grace’s cheek. “It’s over. I swear to God, Emily, it’s finally over.”

Later that morning, as the sun rose over Chicago, the estate was finally quiet.

Arthur and Vanessa had been taken away in federal custody. Marco had tipped off the FBI the moment the breach occurred, using evidence of Arthur’s extortion ring that Luca had quietly gathered over the years.

Isabella Moretti sat in the shattered dining room, sipping black coffee. She looked ten years older, stripped of her arrogance.

Luca walked in, holding my hand.

“I’m leaving for Italy,” Isabella said quietly, not meeting our eyes. “I have a villa in Tuscany. I won’t return to Chicago.”

“Good,” Luca said coldly.

Isabella finally looked up. She looked at me, then at Grace, who was happily eating a plate of pancakes a terrified chef had whipped up.

“I thought I was protecting our family,” Isabella whispered. “But I almost destroyed it. I am sorry, Emily.”

It wasn’t enough to erase five years of pain. But it was a surrender.

“Don’t ever contact us again,” I said simply.

We walked out to the gardens. The morning air was crisp and clean.

Luca stopped by the fountain and pulled something from his pocket.

It was my silver locket. He placed it in my palm.

“I want to do it right this time,” Luca said, his voice thick with emotion. He knelt down on one knee in the wet grass.

“Emily, you are the bravest woman I have ever known. You protected our daughter when I couldn’t. I don’t deserve you, but I will spend every day of the rest of my life proving that I am worthy of your love.”

He looked up at me, tears in his eyes.

“Will you stay?” he asked. “Will you be my wife, for real?”

I looked at the man who had fought through hell to get us back.

“Yes,” I whispered, pulling him up to kiss me.

Grace ran over, giggling, and hugged our legs.

For the first time in five years, I wasn’t a maid. I wasn’t a runaway.

I was home.

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