Her eyes shine with emotion, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time. She just looks at me like she knows she’s safe, like she knows she’s loved, like she knows she belongs.
I kiss her again, slow and steady, surrounded by the people we trust most.
Savannah is mine.
My wife. The mother of my child. The heart of my home.
And I plan to spend the rest of my life making sure she never doubts that again.
21
EPILOGUE: SAVANNAH
Five years later, I still wake up sometimes and wonder how this became my life.
We pass by the restaurant and I can’t help but drink in the sight of it. The building is small, warm, golden at night, with flowers in the window boxes and a line of regulars who show up early “just in case.” The sign out front readsSavvy Bites,and every time I see it lit up, something soft and proud settles in my chest. It’s the place I dreamed of when I was fourteen and falling asleep on the couch with cooking shows playing on low volume so I wouldn’t wake Mom.
And now it’s real. Mine. Thriving. Full most nights. Booked out on weekends.
But the best part of my life isn’t the restaurant. It’s my two boys.Our sons.I know without a doubt they’re currently trying to beat each other with foam swords in my backyard. Tito turned five a month ago. He’s Riccardo’s twin all over again, stubborn and serious. Livio is three, endlessly sweet, endlessly talkative, and always sticky with something. I don’t know how they get this messy just by existing.
Mom visits us every weekend. She still claims Riccardo saved her life twice: once with the operation, and once by giving her grandsons to spoil rotten.
Earlier today, Riccardo had insisted I closed the restaurant early. “You’re banned from kitchen duties,” he’d said. “Chef’s orders.” His tone made it clear he’d drag me out the door if I argued.
I’d obliged.
Now we’re driving toward the coast. The boys have their grandmother over, while my husband and I sit in the quietness of our car. Riccardo keeps glancing at me, smiling and running his tongue over his lower lip.
“What?” I ask, amused.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just looking at my wife.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile gives me away.
He parks at a hidden strip of beach I’ve never seen before. White sand, calm waves, a breeze that smells like salt and summer. Someone—probably Valerio—set up a blanket and a basket already.
Riccardo helps me out of the car like I’m made of glass. I don’t need the help, but I pretend I do because it makes him happy. And because it still feels nice after all this time.
We sit together on the blanket, barefoot, the ocean pulling in and out in slow, steady breaths.
“This is perfect,” I say.
“It gets better.”
He reaches into the basket and pulls out an envelope. Thick. Cream-colored. My name written on it in his handwriting.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
I tear the flap. Inside are two plane tickets—first class—and a reservation slip for a private villa built over crystal blue water.
I blink. “Riccardo… the Maldives?”
“You need a vacation.”
Do I?Every day with Riccardo feels like a vacation. Even when I’m dead on my feet, just being with him helps me recharge.
