"A dying 17-year-old girl needed rare AB-negative blood, and Chicago's most feared mafia boss was the only match—until he saw her scar and realized she was the daughter he was told he could never have."

Inside the private VIP suite on the fifth floor of Lakeview Medical, the room was warm, filled with the scent of fresh lilies and the soft glow of the morning sun.

I sat in a leather armchair beside the bed, holding a warm cup of black coffee, watching Elena's dark eyelashes flutter softly against her pale cheeks.

I had discarded my holster and my heavy coat. For the first time in twenty years, I felt completely stripped of my mafia persona, sitting simply as a father waiting for his child to wake up.

Elena let out a soft, low breath. Her hand twitched against the crisp white sheets.

Slowly, her hazel-gray eyes opened, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the window.

She looked around the luxurious suite in confusion, her eyes drifting over the state-of-the-art monitors, the fresh flowers, and finally landing on me sitting beside her bed.

She didn't look terrified. She looked curious, her brow furrowing slightly as she took in my face—my sharp jaw, my dark hair silvered at the temples, and the exact same hazel eyes looking back at her.

"Where... where am I?" her voice was raspy, dry as paper.

I set my coffee cup down instantly, reaching for a glass of water with a straw, holding it gently to her lips. "You're at Lakeview University Medical Center, Elena. You were in an accident on I-290."

Elena took two slow sips of water, her breathing steadying as she leaned her head back against the pillows. She reached up with her right hand, her fingers gently touching the small crescent scar beneath her left eye.

"The doctor told me... someone gave me blood," she whispered, her hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my chest ache. "He said a man saved my life."

I swallowed hard, the powerful mob boss who ruled half of Chicago suddenly feeling completely speechless in front of a seventeen-year-old girl.

"I gave you the blood, Elena," I confessed softly. "We... we have a very rare blood type. AB negative."

Elena stared at me for three long seconds. Her gaze drifted down to my right arm, where a small white bandage covered the puncture mark in my vein.

Then her eyes shifted to my face, taking in the distinct cleft in my chin, the shape of my eyebrows, and the heavy platinum ring on my finger bearing the crest of the Mancini family—a crest she had seen on an old, worn photograph hidden inside her mother's jewelry box for seventeen years.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

"You're Luca," she whispered, her voice cracking into a tiny, fragile tremble.

I froze. "You know my name?"

Tears well in Elena's hazel eyes, spilling softly down her pale cheeks. "My mother... she had a picture of you under the pier in Saint Joseph. She told me... she told me my father was a man who had a cold world, but a warm heart. She told me you didn't know about me because she wanted to keep me safe from the fire."

A broken, ragged sound escaped my chest. I slid out of my chair, dropping to my knees beside her hospital bed, reaching out my large, trembling hands to gently cover hers on the blanket.

"I'm sorry, Elena," I wept softly, burying my face against the edge of her mattress, tears hot against my cheeks. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there when your mother passed... I'm so sorry you had to fight alone."