174 “Listen to the Voicemail” My Mafia Boss Employer Was About to Sign His Engagement Trust—Then My Eight-Year-Old Played His Missing Wife’s Voicemail and One Timestamp Reopened the Night She Vanished

By the time April arrived, the harsh Chicago winter had completely surrendered to a warm, golden spring.

The gardens surrounding the Moretti estate were bursting with color—rows of blooming tulips, fresh green hedges, and cherry blossoms lining the stone pathways. The dark, brooding aura that had hung over the mansion for three long years was gone, replaced by the sound of laughter echoing from the lawns.

Emily was running across the grass with Professor Whiskers trailing close behind her, her bright red sneakers splashing through the lawn sprinklers.

I stood on the stone patio, holding a tray of fresh lemonade, watching her from beneath the shade of the grand veranda.

Heavy, warm arms wrapped around my waist from behind, and a familiar chin rested gently on my shoulder.

“She’s going to track mud all the way through the kitchen,” Vincent murmured, a low, rumbling amusement in his voice.

“Let her,” I smiled, leaning back against his chest. “That’s what housekeepers are supposed to clean up, remember?”

Vincent chuckled, pressing a soft kiss against the side of my neck. “You haven’t been a housekeeper in months, Clara. You’re the CEO of the Carter-Moretti household, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Down on the lawn, Emily stopped running, turned around, and waved frantically at us both.

“Mom! Vincent! Come on! The sprinklers are on high!”

Vincent smiled, taking the tray of lemonade out of my hands and setting it down on the wrought-iron patio table. He reached out, taking my hand in his—his right ring finger now completely bare, free of any ghosts, ready for whatever chapter came next.