“Are You One of the Bad Guys?”—The Little Girl Asked the Mafia Boss One Question That Changed Everything

Spring in Cleveland came late, but when it finally broke, the city smelled of fresh lake water and blossoming magnolias.

The terrace of the Bratenahl estate had been transformed. White linen covered thirty tables set across the lawn; strings of fairy lights were woven through the century-old oak trees; and the scent of lemon-rosemary chicken and wild berry tarts drifted across the bluff toward the water.

Aunt Margaret sat in the front row, wearing an enormous lavender hat, sipping prosecco and looking as smug as a cat that had inherited a dairy farm.

"I told you," Margaret said loudly to anyone who would listen. "I told him! *Usefulness is not a personality.* And look at him now!"

Dominic stood near the stone balustrade overlooking the lake.

He wore a bespoke navy suit, tailored to perfection, with a white calla lily pinned to his lapel. The scar through his eyebrow was still there, but the granite lines of his face had softened into something that looked terrifyingly like peace.

The music changed.

A string quartet began playing a slow, lilting version of an old Italian folk song.

The French doors of the mansion opened.

Dominic’s breath caught in his throat.

Claire walked down the stone steps.

She was magnificent. She wore an off-the-shoulder gown of ivory lace that hugged her curves—her full hips, her narrow waist, the soft, glorious sweep of her shoulders—before flaring into a heavy silk train that trailed across the green grass. Her dark auburn hair was pinned up with white freesia, a few soft curls framing a face that was radiant with joy.

She didn't hurry. She walked with that proud, easy grace of a woman who knew she was loved beyond all measure, her hazel eyes locked onto Dominic with a certainty that made his knees feel weak.

And walking three paces ahead of her was the flower girl.

Chloe wore a yellow dress that matched her favorite raincoat, patent-leather shoes without a single scuff, and a crown of daisies on her dark curls. In her left hand, she carried a basket of rose petals, which she hurled at the guests with aggressive, military precision.

Tucked under her right arm was Barnaby.

The rabbit had been professionally restored. His missing ear had been reattached with silk thread, his velvet cleaned, and around his neck was a tiny, custom-made black bow tie that matched Dominic’s lapels.

Chloe reached the altar first.

She stopped in front of Dominic, looking up at him with those sharp, unbothered brown eyes.

Dominic knelt.

He didn't care about the press of his trousers against the grass. He looked at the little girl, reaching out to adjust the rabbit’s tiny bow tie.

"Does Barnaby approve of the suit?" Dominic asked softly.

Chloe looked him up and down. Then she reached out, her small, gloved fingers touching the lapel of his navy jacket.

"He says you look like a good guy," Chloe announced, her voice carrying across the silent lawn.

Dominic felt a lump form in his throat—thick, heavy, and completely unfamiliar. He smiled, a full, unhidden smile that lit up his gray eyes and made Aunt Margaret dab at her mascara with a lace handkerchief.

"And what do you say?" Dominic asked.

Chloe leaned in, standing on her tiptoes, and pressed a sticky, strawberry-flavored kiss to the scar on his cheek.

"I decided," she whispered into his ear. "You're our dragon."

Dominic closed his eyes for a second, swallowing past the ache in his throat. "Forever," he promised.

He rose to his feet as Claire reached the altar.

She took his hands. Her skin was warm, soft, and smelled of vanilla and sun. When she looked up at him through her veil, tears of pure, radiant happiness were shining in her eyes.

"Sorry, I'm late," she whispered, her lips curving into that breathtaking, dimpled smile that had saved his life.