"Please, Ronan," she says softly. "I know you're still angry. I know we hurt you. But I love him. And I want to marry him properly, with you there. With your blessing."
Something shifts in Ronan's expression. The hard edges soften just slightly.
"Ronan," Leila says quietly, her hand coming to rest on his arm. "Look at her. Look at how happy she is."
I see the moment his resolve cracks, the moment his love for his sister wins out over his anger at me.
"Fine," he says, and the word is hard but not unkind. "You have my blessing. Both of you." He looks at me for a long moment. "But Elio, hear me now: you hurt her, you make her cry, you give me even one reason to regret this, and I will end you. Slowly. Understood?"
"Understood," I say. I’ve never meant anything more. And I know I’ll never hurt her. I’d rather end myself first.
Ronan nods, then does something that surprises me, he stands up, and clasps my hand in his. He hesitates for onemoment, and then pulls me into a hug, the way we used to do as brothers.
I embrace him in return. It’s the beginning of forgiveness. And I’m so grateful for it that my chest aches. "Thank you," I say quietly. "I won't let you down."
"See that you don't." Ronan's grip tightens for a moment, then he releases me and pulls Annie into another hug. "I hope he makes you as happy as you deserve,” he murmurs, and she beams up at him, her face alight with happiness.
"He does," she says softly. "He really does."
Leila appears with champagne and sparkling cider for herself and Annie—and pours a toast for all of us. And as I stand there with my arm around Annie's waist, her engagement ring sparkling on her finger, Ronan's grudging acceptance still ringing in my ears, I believe, against all odds, that we're going to get our happy ending.
That, after everything, the promise I made to Annie as we left that warehouse is going to come true.
We’re going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay—better than that, actually.
It’s going to be perfect.
EPILOGUE
ANNIE
The late afternoon sunlight streams through the windows of our bedroom, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. I watch the dust motes dance in the air, feeling like I'm suspended in some kind of dream. A beautiful, impossible dream that I'm terrified of waking up from.
But the weight in my arms is real. The tiny, perfect bundle wrapped in soft white cotton is real. The sound of my daughter's breathing—so small, so delicate—is the most real thing I've ever experienced.
“It’s hard to stop staring at her, isn’t it?” Elio says softly from the doorway.
I look up to find my husband watching us with an expression that makes my heart ache. There's so much love in his eyes that I feel tears prick at the corners of mine. "I can't help it," I whisper, looking back down at our daughter. "She's so perfect, Elio. How did we make something so perfect?"
He crosses the room in three long strides and sits beside me on the bed, his arm coming around my shoulders. Together, we stare down at the tiny miracle sleeping in my arms.
Margaret Sophia Cattaneo. Irish and Italian, mine and his, a mixture of the both of us. And somehow, it fits her perfectly.
She has Elio's dark hair, just a wisp of it on her tiny head. But when she opens her eyes, they're blue like mine. A perfect blend of both of us, both of our families, both of our worlds.
"I still can't believe she's ours," Elio murmurs, his finger gently stroking Margaret's impossibly small hand. "That we get to keep her."
I lean into him, exhausted but happier than I ever thought possible. "Believe it. Because you're not getting out of diaper duty."
He laughs quietly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I wouldn't dream of it."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, just watching our daughter sleep. It's been three days since we left the hospital, and I still haven't gotten used to the reality of her. The fact that she's here, that she's healthy, that she's ours.
The pregnancy was difficult. Not physically—I was lucky in that regard, with morning sickness that went away after the first three months, mostly, and no major complications. But the scars from Desmond didn’t heal as quickly as I’d hoped. I had nightmares and panic attacks, moments where I'd wake up in the middle of the night convinced that Desmond was still alive, that he was coming for me, that he was going to take my baby away before I even got to meet her.
But Elio never left my side for even a moment. He held me through the nightmares, talked me through the panic attacks, reminded me over and over that I was safe. That we were safe. That Desmond was dead and could never hurt us again.
"Your brothers will be here soon," Elio says, glancing at his watch. "And Leila, and Simone. Ronan texted. They're about twenty minutes out."
