I smile—the real one, the one only she gets. "I love you. More than anything. More than this world I've built, more than my reputation, more than my own life."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not." I pull the from my pocket—the one that saved her life. "I'm being honest. Marry me. For real this time. Not for show, not for strategy. Just... be mine, Bianca. Forever."
Tears spill down her cheeks. "Yes."
This time I slide the ring onto her finger and it fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be there.
"Now what?" she whispers.
"Now we go home." I kiss her forehead. "And we start living."
Because that's what love is—not the grand gestures or the dramatic rescues, but choosing someone every day, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard.
And I'll choose Bianca Mancini every damn day for the rest of my life.
EPILOGUE
Six months later
Enzo
The cathedral is too fucking bright.
Candles everywhere. Flowers that probably cost more than most people make in a year. Soft organ music that makes my teeth ache. The kind of wedding people dream about—white lace, floating veils, polished marble floors reflecting all this manufactured purity. Tradition and happily-ever-after bullshit wrapped in silk ribbon. A stage built for innocence, when half the people in this room have blood on their hands.
I hate every second of it.
Not because of Dante. He's my brother in every way that matters and watching him stand at that altar waiting for Bianca—there’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before. Peace, maybe. Or hope. Something steady and quiet, like he's finally stepped into the life he was always supposed to have. Themonster-turned-family man, ready to fight for once instead of destroy.
Whatever it is, it looks good on him. Makes me proud in a way I’ll never admit out loud.
No, I hate this because she’s here.
Isabella.
She’s sitting three rows ahead on the bride’s side—close enough that I can see everything. The way her dark hair falls in soft waves down her back. The graceful line of her neck. The way she keeps twisting her hands in her lap like she’s nervous, even though she’s surrounded by family and friends and should feel safe.
She hasn’t looked at meoncesince the ceremony started.
Good. That’s how it should be.
So why do I want to march over to her and grab her chin? Tilt her face up until those eyes finally meet mine? Why do I want to break every goddamn rule I’ve spent years following? Why does every muscle in my body feel tight and restless and one breath away from doing the stupidest thing imaginable?
“You’re glaring,” Rafe mutters beside me.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You’re about to burn a hole through the back of her head.” He stretches his legs out like he belongs in this pew, like he isn’t watching me unravel. “How long’s been this time since you’ve last talked to her?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Right. That’s why you look like you want to murder someone every time she’s in the room. Totally normal reaction to having ‘nothing to talk about.’”
I don’t respond. Don’t rise to the bait. Just focus on the altar where Dante is now taking Bianca’s hands, saying vows I can’t quite hear over the blood rushing in my ears.
Isabella shifts. Crosses her legs. The movement makes her dress ride up slightly, revealing soft, creamy skin that I itch to touch. My jaw tightens. My fingers curl against my thighs. The urge to drag her out of this room is feral, wrong, overwhelming.
