The Mafia Boss Thought A Maid’s Daughter Was Just A Poor Child — Until Her Old Doll Exposed The Crime That Haunted Him For Years.

PART 12

The years that followed were quieter than his old life.

Priya moved into a modest house owned in her name. She completed a business administration degree and became director of the Owen Osei Foundation, which provided legal support to families injured by workplace corruption.

Wren wrote to him every Sunday.

*Dear Mr. Weston, Mommy says I should not tell people they look grumpy, but I think it helped you.*

*Dear Mr. Weston, Rosie is fixed. Mrs. Ferro used red thread because that was Daddy’s color.*

Weston answered every letter. He told Wren about Nadia — that she had loved strawberry ice cream and hated matching socks. He told her Odalys used to say sunflowers turned toward light even on the darkest days.

Weston was released after serving four years and two months. He took a bus to the city alone.

The address Priya had given him was a white house with green shutters. Sunflowers rose along the fence.

Before he could move, the door opened. Wren ran outside — eight years old now, Rosie tucked beneath one arm.

“Mr. Weston!” She collided with him.

“You got big.”

“You got old.”

Priya stood in the doorway. “You made it to the door.”

“Almost.”

“Four years, and you’re still standing at the edge of things.”

“I wasn’t certain I was welcome.”

“I wrote it fourteen times,” Wren said.

“Come inside, Weston,” Priya said.