Not in a church filled with strangers and political alliances, but on our rooftop, under stars I can finally name without flinching. Marco officiates—apparently, he's licensed, which seems like an odd detail for a mafia don until I remember that crime families often need documents processed quickly and quietly. Dante serves as witness, his scarred throat hidden by a formal collar, his eyes warm in a way I've never seen directed at me before.
I wear white again, but this time it's a simple silk slip dress that Alessandro chose himself. No corset, no layers, no armor. Just fabric that whispers against my skin when the wind shifts.
"Emma Pitt," Alessandro says, sliding a new ring onto my finger—not the emerald from before, but a band of tiny diamonds that catch starlight like captured constellations. "I take you as my wife. Not because of contracts or alliances or revenge. But because you showed me that the stars are more interesting than anything I could own, and that some things are better when you choose them freely."
His vows are awkward, unpracticed in a way that makes them perfect. This man who commands armies and orchestrates violence across the city stumbles over words about love like a teenager at prom. It cracks something open in my chest, something that's been waiting to bloom since the night he held me through a nightmare and called me cara like it meant something.
"Alessandro Rosetti," I reply, my voice steady despite the tears on my cheeks. "I take you as my husband. Not because I have to survive, but because I want to live. Not because you're safe—you'll never be safe—but because the danger feels like home when you're beside me. You saw me when I was invisible and made me queen of your world. I choose that. I choose you."
Marco pronounces us husband and wife with something that might be emotion roughening his voice, and when Alessandro kisses me, it tastes like champagne and starlight and the beginning of something we're building together, brick by blood-stained brick.
Later, wrapped in blankets on our rooftop, Alessandro's arms tighten around me as we survey the sky. In the distance, Chicago sprawls and glitters, a kingdom of shadows and light that we'll rule together—not as the servant and the playboy who startedthis story, but as Emma and Alessandro Rosetti, bound by choice and darkness and something that looks remarkably like love.
Above us, a meteor streaks across the sky. I close my eyes and make a wish I know will come true.
Let us build something worth dying for.
When I open them, Alessandro is watching me with that expression I've come to recognize: hunger and tenderness and something fierce enough to level cities.
"What did you wish for?" he asks.
I turn in his arms, pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat where his pulse races against my mouth. "I didn't need to wish," I tell him. "I already have it."
The stars wheel on above us, indifferent and eternal, as we write our own mythology across the Chicago sky.
Epilogue - Sofia
The nightmare is always the same, except for the parts I can’t remember.
Blood on marble floors. Screaming in a language I shouldn't understand but do. A boy's voice calling for his brother while gunfire echoes through halls I know like my own heartbeat. But when I try to focus on the details, to grab hold of what really happened that night eleven years ago, my mind goes white. Like someone took an eraser to my memories, leaving only the emotions behind: terror, guilt, and something else. Something worse.
I wake in my suite at the Rosetti compound, sheets soaked with sweat, the taste of copper in my mouth. Three AM. Always three AM, like my subconscious has an appointment with trauma.
The sleeping pills sit untouched on my nightstand. I stopped taking them two weeks ago, after the yacht dinner. If the memories want to come back, I need to let them. The family thinks I'm handling everything well—the Russian attack, Emma's near-death, my spectacular failure in judgment. They see me returning to my routines, attending family dinners, running my part of the business with typical Rosetti efficiency.
They don't see me at three AM, standing at my windows overlooking the compound gardens, watching the guards patrol while my mind tears itself apart trying to remember what I've forgotten.
I pull on a silk robe and move to the small office attached to my suite. The space is immaculate, everything in its place, controlled. Unlike my mind. The laptop opens to encrypted files I've been collecting for two weeks now. Everything I can find about the Volkov family. About Mikhail. About Alexei.
His photograph fills the screen, pulled from a security feed at one of our warehouses. Those pale eyes that looked at me like he could see through skin and bone to whatever I'm hiding from myself. In the photo, he's mid-conversation with one of his men, but there's something about his posture, the way he holds himself, that screams predator.
I cross-reference shipping manifests with his known appearances. He's been circling us for months, maybe years. Patient. Strategic. Almost like he's been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I recognize the technique—it's exactly what I would do.
"Your debt comes due soon, Sofia."
I touch the screen where his face is, remembering the feeling of his finger on my cheek, how he wrapped my hair around his finger like he was already claiming ownership. I should be terrified. I am terrified. But there's something else there too, something that makes my pulse race for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
My phone buzzes. Marco, because of course my brother is also awake at three AM.
Marco:Heard you moving around. You okay?
The walls in this compound hide nothing from him. He probably knew I was awake before I did.
Me:Fine. Couldn't sleep.
Marco:Come to my study.
It's not a request. I close the encrypted files and make my way through the familiar hallways. The compound at night feels different—more fortress than home. Every shadow could hide athreat, every corner could conceal an enemy. Or maybe that's just my paranoia talking.
