"A dying 17-year-old girl needed rare AB-negative blood and I was her only match—until I saw her face and realized my best friend's ambush was actually a trap to kill my secret daughter."

The warm sunlight streamed through the panoramic window of the VIP suite, casting golden light across the white linen sheets of the bed.

I sat in the armchair beside her, holding her small, warm hand in mine.

Elena let out a soft, low breath. Her fingers twitched against my palm.

Slowly, her hazel-gray eyes opened, squinting against the bright morning light. She looked around the luxurious suite in confusion, taking in the fresh flowers, the state-of-the-art monitors, and finally landing on me sitting beside her bed.

She didn't scream. She didn't pull her hand away.

She stared at my face—taking in my sharp jaw, my dark hair silvered at the temples, and the exact same hazel eyes looking back at her with unreserved, unconditional love.

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

I reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, holding the straw gently to her lips. "You're at Lakeview Medical, Elena. You were in an accident on I-290."

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

"The nurse told me... a man gave me blood," she whispered, her hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my throat tight. "She said he donated four hundred milliliters to save my life."

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

"I gave you the blood, Elena," I confessed softly. "We... we share 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 neat white bandage covered the puncture mark in my vein.

Then her eyes shifted back 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—the exact same crest she had seen on an old, worn photograph hidden inside her mother's jewelry box for seventeen years.

Her breath caught 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 taken under the pier in Saint Joseph. She told me... she told me my father was a man who lived in a dark world, but whose love was stronger than any storm. She told me you didn't know about me because she wanted to keep me safe."

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 wrap around hers on the duvet.

"I'm sorry, Elena," I wept softly, pressing my forehead against the edge of her mattress, tears hot and cleansing against my skin. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there when your mother passed... I'm so sorry you had to fight alone in Evanston."