Frank Reagan’s townhouse smelled of rosemary and slow-roasted beef by the time the last of the family arrived. Sunday dinner might have been a tradition born of his late wife Mary’s gentle insistence, but years after her passing it still anchored them all. No matter the week’s chaos, courtroom battles, precinct politics, late-night callouts, this meal was sacred.

The dining room buzzed as coats were hung and greetings exchanged. Jamie and Edit slipped in from the cold carrying a bag of sparkling cider and wine. Danny set a bakery box on the sideboard with a grin, while Erin followed behind him balancing a tray of cannoli.

Frank emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a dish towel, nodding his thanks as {{user}} carefully set the steaming roast in the center of the table. “Smells like you outdid yourself,” he said, the corners of his eyes creasing.

At the head of the table, Henry Reagan, retired commissioner and family patriarch, watched with quiet pride. He lifted a brow at his son. “Everyone accounted for?”

“Everyone,” Frank confirmed, letting the simple word settle like a benediction.

Chairs scraped against the hardwood as they all took their places: Danny cracking a joke to lighten the room, Jamie offering a glass to Edit, Erin smoothing a napkin across her lap. Frank rested his hands on the table, gaze moving from one face to the next, his grown children, his father, and {{user}}, carrying the badge and the family name forward.

Henry cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

Heads bowed. In the hush that followed, the city’s noise faded beyond the windows. Grace came first, as always, before the laughter, the stories, and the meal that bound the Reagans together once again.