The eighteenth nanny fled the mansion with blood running down her forehead, screaming that four-year-old Noah Vale was “not right”—and by that afternoon, I was kneeling in front of the same little boy while one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses watched from the staircase.

Six months later.

The glass conservatory at the Lake Forest compound was filled with sunlight, blooming orchids, and the sound of children's laughter.

Clara stood near a large wooden easel, holding a palette of oil paints, finishing a portrait of Noah and Tyler sitting together on the garden lawn, building a massive wooden tower out of birch blocks.

The heavy glass doors clicked open, and Dominic walked inside, carrying a small silver tray with two cups of fresh tea.

He set the tray down on a low table, walking up behind Clara, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder as he looked at the canvas.

"You captured his eyes," Dominic said softly, his thumb gently tracing the smooth curve of her hip. "He doesn't look scared anymore."

"He isn't scared anymore, Dominic," Clara said, turning her head slightly to kiss his cheek. "Neither are you."

Dominic smiled warmly, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a small velvet box.

He opened it softly, revealing a stunning vintage engagement ring featuring a brilliant pear-cut diamond surrounded by small emeralds.

Clara's breath caught in her throat. She looked from the ring up to Dominic's stormy hazel eyes, which were filled with pure, unadulterated love.

"Clara Reed," Dominic said, his baritone voice thick with raw emotion. "You entered this house when it was filled with blood, fear, and silence. You saved my son, and you brought light back into my life. Will you marry me and make this house a home?"

Clara felt happy tears spill over her eyelashes. She didn't hesitate for a single second.

"Yes," Clara wept softly, throwing her arms around his neck. "Yes, Dominic!"