“Mister, I have tattoos like you!” Three-year-old Lily Parker stood on the third marble step of Greystone House with both sleeves pushed to her elbows and a black washable marker still clutched in one fist.

The morning sun finally broke through the gray canopy of clouds, casting brilliant beams of gold across the manicured lawns of Greystone House.

Damian stood on the stone veranda, watching the lake waves crash against the seawall. In his hand, he held a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. He hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, but his mind had never been sharper.

Behind him, the French doors opened softly.

Elena stepped onto the terrace. She had changed into a simple knitted sweater and dark jeans. She looked rested for the first time since she had arrived at Greystone, though the shadows under her eyes remained deep.

“She’s eating pancakes,” Elena said quietly. “She told the cook that she wanted seven of them because she’s ‘almost seven feet tall.’”

Damian’s lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. “She has Isabelle’s appetite. Isabelle used to eat waffles at two in the morning whenever she was working on a canvas.”

Elena walked to the stone balustrade, leaning her elbows against it and looking out over the water.

“You gave Victor to the feds,” Elena noted. “Enzo told me. I thought you would kill him.”

“Death is an exit,” Damian said, staring at the horizon. “Victor doesn't deserve an exit. He deserves to sit in the dark and realize that everything he built, everything he stole, was turned to ash in a single night.”

He turned to look at Elena. His expression became intensely solemn.

“Elena. I had my accountants review the offshore accounts Victor was running. There was a blind trust established in the Cayman Islands three years ago. Victor thought it was his personal slush fund, but the authorization codes were tied to an encrypted IP address in Wisconsin.”

Elena froze. Her hands gripped the cold stone of the balustrade. “Wisconsin?”

“A private medical sanctuary on the shores of Lake Geneva,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a register so tense it was barely audible. “Specializing in long-term trauma, advanced neural rehabilitation, and burn recovery.”

Elena’s breath hitched. She turned to Damian, her face draining of color. “Damian… what are you saying?”

“You told me Isabelle died in your arms,” Damian said, taking a step toward her. His eyes were wide, filled with a wild, desperate hope that bordered on madness. “You told me you buried her under an oak tree with an ‘I’ carved into the bark.”

Elena looked down at her hands, trembling violently.

“Elena,” Damian pleaded, his voice cracking with an agony that brought tears to her eyes. “Did you bury my wife?”

Elena closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek, landing on the stone.

“I didn't have a choice,” Elena sobbed softly. “She made me swear. She made me swear on Lily’s life!”

Damian grabbed Elena’s shoulders—not with violence, but with a desperate, pleading reverence. “Elena! Is she alive? *Is Isabelle alive?!*”

Elena opened her eyes, looking directly into Damian’s tormented soul.

“She was dying, Damian,” Elena wept. “When she gave birth to Lily, her lungs were full of fluid from the river. Her heart stopped twice on the delivery table. Dr. Vance told me she wouldn't survive the night. But then Marcus Vance showed up at the clinic. He had orders from Victor to kill everyone. Dr. Vance… he had a conscience after all. He helped us escape through the basement.”

Elena wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, her voice trembling with the memory of that terrible night.

“We put Isabelle in the back of an ambulance. She was barely conscious. But she grabbed my arm with the last bit of strength she had. She said, ‘Elena, if Damian knows I’m alive, Victor will never stop hunting us. He will use Lily against him. He will burn Chicago to the ground. You have to tell Damian I’m dead. You have to let him believe it so he doesn't tear the world apart looking for me.’”

Damian’s chest heaved. “And the grave?”

“Empty,” Elena whispered. “A mound of dirt and an oak cross to throw Marcus Vance off the scent. Dr. Vance used his medical connections to transfer Isabelle under a false identity to a specialized facility in Wisconsin under a permanent medical coma. Her care was funded anonymously by diverting small fractions of Victor’s own dirty money through the clinic's offshore routing codes.”

Elena looked up at Damian, her expression filled with a mixture of terror and awe.

“She woke up two years ago, Damian. But her lungs were damaged. Her body was broken. And she was terrified. She believed you hated her. She believed you wanted her dead because Victor had told her you authorized the hit on the bridge.”

Damian stumbled back, releasing Elena’s shoulders. He looked up at the sky, laughing through his tears—a sound of pure, unadulterated madness and joy.

“She’s alive,” he shouted to the empty sky, the wind catching his voice and carrying it across the lake. “She’s alive!”

He looked back at Elena, his eyes burning with an unstoppable fire.

“Enzo!” Damian roared.

Enzo appeared on the terrace within seconds. “Boss?”