No One Wanted to Care for the Paralyzed Crime Boss Until the Maid’s Three-Year-Old Daughter Walked Into His Office With a Broken Cookie

Six months passed.

The grand estate in Lakehurst was sold. Julian bought a quiet, heavily secured, modern home in a wealthy suburb in upstate New York. It had ramps, wide hallways, and massive windows overlooking a private lake.

It was safe. It was peaceful.

And it was a tomb.

Julian sat in his new office. The walls were bare. He had refused to bring the children's drawings with him. He told himself it was to make a clean break.

He was out of the syndicate. His physical therapy was progressing—he still couldn't walk, but he had regained immense core strength and independence. He was the CEO of a legitimate tech logistics company now.

He had everything. He had nothing.

Dante walked into the office, holding a tablet.

"The final transfer went through, Boss," Dante said. "You're 100% legitimate."

Julian didn't look away from the window. "Good."

Dante hesitated. "I got an alert today. From the trust fund you set up for the Carters."

Julian’s head snapped around. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Dante said softly. "But Mrs. Carter hasn't touched a single dime. The money has been sitting there for six months. She’s working as a manager at a floral shop in Chicago. She rented a small house with a yard."

Julian stared at his hands. I don't want your money, Julian. She had meant it.

"She’s proud," Julian muttered.

"She’s in love with you, you stubborn idiot," Dante fired back.

Julian glared at his security chief. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Dante said, tossing a manila folder onto Julian’s desk. "You sent them away to protect them from the mob. Well, the mob is gone. You're a civilian now. A very rich, very miserable civilian. And today is Ellie's fourth birthday."

Julian stared at the folder.

"Dante," Julian said, his heart hammering against his ribs.