Get back on the floor,"" Gilbert muttered, his breath sour with cheap coffee and mounting panic as he clamped a heavy hand onto Evelyn's shoulder.

The spring thaw came to Chicago three months later, bringing with it the sharp scent of damp earth, melting snow, and diesel exhaust from the newly reopened docks at South Chicago.

The sign hanging above the freshly renovated administrative building didn't read Moretti Logistics anymore. In bold, clean, metallic lettering, it read: VANCE-MORETTI STRATEGIC SHIPPING.

Inside the executive office on the second floor, sunlight streamed through wide floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling harbor. Forklifts beeped rhythmically below, crane operators shouted instructions through radios, and massive container ships glided smoothly into their berths, fully laden with cargo and operating under clean, uncorrupted union oversight.

Evelyn Vance sat behind a massive mahogany desk—the very desk her father had once used before his life was stolen from him.

She wore a tailored charcoal blazer over a crisp silk blouse, her hair pulled back into a sleek, professional chignon. The lingering shadows of fear and vengeance that had haunted her eyes months ago were gone, replaced by the sharp, focused intelligence of a woman who had reclaimed her birthright.

A soft knock sounded at the office door.

“Come in,” Evelyn called out, not looking up from the shipping manifests spread across her desk.

The heavy wooden door swung open. Lorenzo Moretti walked in. He wasn't wearing his usual dark, intimidating suit; instead, he wore a simple black cashmere sweater and dark trousers, looking less like a syndicate boss and more like a captain of industry. In his hands, he carried two steaming paper cups of coffee from the local diner down the street.

He walked across the room and placed one of the cups on the corner of Evelyn’s desk.

“You’re working too hard,” Lorenzo observed, pulling up a leather chair and sitting down opposite her without waiting for an invitation. “The port council meeting isn't for another two hours.”

Evelyn picked up the coffee cup, taking a slow, appreciative sip before looking up at him. “Running an empire is considerably more complicated when you’re not using bribery and intimidation to meet your quotas, Lorenzo.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Lorenzo smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, you have the most feared consultant in the Midwest sitting right across from you. If any of the union bosses give you trouble, Bruno is stationed downstairs with a fresh set of paperwork.”

Evelyn laughed softly—a genuine, unburdened sound that she hadn't allowed herself to make in years.

“Bruno is doing a wonderful job managing port security,” Evelyn agreed. “Though I think he misses the excitement of dodging C4 blasts in upscale restaurants.”

“Trust me, peace is vastly overrated until you’ve fought a war to keep it,” Lorenzo said, his dark eyes softening as he looked around the sunlit office. His gaze lingered on a newly framed photograph resting on the bookshelf behind Evelyn’s desk—a black-and-white picture of Arthur Vance smiling proudly beside a much younger Evelyn on their first day touring the harbor.

Silence settled over the room, warm and comfortable, far removed from the cold, blood-soaked nights that had brought them together.

“Did you hear about the reports coming out of South America?” Lorenzo asked quietly.

Evelyn paused, lowering her coffee cup. “From the freight freighters?”

“Port authorities in Rio picked up two vagrants trying to sell forged passports last week,” Lorenzo said, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips. “An older man and a woman in rags. They spent three months trying to bribe local dockworkers with nonexistent bank accounts in the Caymans.”

Evelyn looked down at her hands, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the desk. She felt no rush of vindication, no burst of joy. Only a quiet, closing chapter of a long, painful story.

“Let them stay there,” Evelyn said softly. “They’re ghosts now. They have nothing to do with us.”

“Agreed,” Lorenzo said, standing up from his chair. He walked around the desk, stopping just beside Evelyn’s chair. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box, placing it gently beside her keyboard.

Evelyn looked up at him, her brow furrowing. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” Lorenzo said simply.

Evelyn hesitated for a second, then reached out and flipped the lid open.

Inside sat a brand-new, custom-engraved signet ring. It wasn't the heavy, platinum Moretti family crest. It was a sleek, modern band of brushed steel and gold, etched with a delicate pair of interlocked shipping anchors—the official emblem of the new Vance-Moretti partnership.

“You don't have to keep carrying my family’s weight on your finger,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate murmur. “It’s time you wore your own badge.”

Evelyn stared at the ring, her heart fluttering with a sudden, breathless realization. She looked up into Lorenzo’s dark, unwavering eyes, seeing not the terrifying mafia boss who had ruled the underworld through fear, but the man who had trusted her word when she slid a cocktail napkin beneath his wineglass.

She picked up the ring, slipped it onto the ring finger of her right hand, and held it up to the morning sunlight streaming through the window. It fit perfectly.