The Mafia Boss Checked the Cameras to See Why His Father Kept Refusing Every Nurse—Then He Saw the Eighth Nurse Make the Feared Old Man Laugh, But Hours Later...

Six months later, the Moretti mansion felt entirely different.

The heavy, suffocating gloom that had hung over the North Shore estate since Victor’s stroke had lifted, replaced by the salty coastal breeze blowing through open French doors and the occasional sound of genuine laughter echoing from the second-floor library.

Victor Moretti was sitting in his favorite leather armchair by the window, moving a rook across an old wooden chessboard with his left hand—which had regained much of its mobility through months of rigorous physical therapy supervised by Claire.

Across the board sat Claire Donovan, wearing a casual navy sweater instead of her nurse’s uniform, holding a mug of steaming black coffee.

“Your defense is sloppy today, Claire,” Victor teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“My defense is fine, Victor. You’re just cheating because you moved your knight while I was looking at the ocean,” she retorted, smiling back at him.

Downstairs in the private study, Dominic Moretti stood by the window, watching the sunset over the Atlantic. The criminal empire was stable, the New York syndicates had been put back in their place, and the internal rot had been thoroughly purged. The house was quiet, but it was no longer a tomb.

A soft knock sounded at the study door.

“Come in.”

Claire walked into the room, holding her jacket. Her shift as a private consultant and medical supervisor for Victor had officially transitioned into something entirely different over the past few months, though neither of them had explicitly put a label on it yet.

Dominic turned around, leaning against the edge of his mahogany desk. “Is my father giving you a hard time about the chess match again?”

“He cheated,” Claire stated flatly, a playful smile touching her lips. “He always cheats. I’m starting to think he never actually had a stroke; he just wanted someone to play chess with him because his son is too boring.”

Dominic’s eyebrows rose in mock offense. “Boring? I run half of New England.”

“Exactly. All business, no blitz chess.” Claire walked closer, stopping just a few feet away from him. The distance between them had closed significantly over the past half-year of shared secrets, late-night coffee, and silent understandings.

Dominic reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was careful, entirely devoid of the roughness he reserved for his enemies. “My father won’t stop asking when we’re officially moving the chess table downstairs to the main parlor.”