Hand in hand, we walk out to get married. Under the open sky, in front of all our friends, our family, our empire.
The garden is glowing.
Golden light spills over everything, draped fabrics, rows of chairs filled with familiar faces, the soft shimmer of flower petals in the breeze.
The aisle is lined with white roses and dark green ivy, a path that looks more like a fairytale than a crime family gathering. But that’s what it is. Our world blending with hers.
Riccardo’s standing up front with Valerio beside him, both of them grinning like they know secrets I don’t. Alberto nods to me from his place at the side, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the consigliere, and today, a friend.
Savannah’s in the front row, beside Rose and Amber and Izzy, all of them dressed in pastels and misty-eyed already. Even Donald's here, looking oddly respectful, probably terrified I’ll feed him to a wood chipper if he breathes wrong.
Erin squeezes my hand, and I look down to find her watching me. “You okay?” she whispers.
I nod. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
We step forward. Every footfall feels like a vow. With each step, I’m leaving behind the man I was—the one who ruled with fear, who trusted no one, who lived by a code written in blood. I’m walking into something new. Something terrifying.
Something beautiful.
We stop beneath the archway, where a string quartet trails off and the officiant smiles.
The words blur. The crowd fades. There’s only her.
Only Erin.
My angel.
And when I say “I do,” it’s not just a promise. It’s a surrender.
She repeats the words, voice soft but strong. She slips the ring on my finger with shaking hands.
“You may kiss the bride.”
I do.
And in that kiss, I taste the life we’ve built. The scars, the survival, the healing. I taste everything we were, everything we are, everything we will be.
15
EPILOGUE: ERIN
FIVE YEARS LATER
Chaos is a kind of love language in our house.
Three kids. One suitcase that refuses to zip. A last-minute call from my editor. Juice spilled across the marble kitchen island. And Luca, as usual, the eye of the storm, calm, commanding, annoyingly good-looking as he calmly shoos away two of our toddlers who are trying to climb him like a tree.
“Emilia, Angelo, please stop treating your father like a jungle gym,” I say with a sigh, adjusting my youngest, Sofia, on my hip.
Emilia sticks out her tongue and giggles. Angelo responds by throwing himself dramatically across the floor.
“Dear God,” Jack mutters behind me as he zips up the last of the kids’ backpacks. “Are we sure we want to putthiscircus on a plane?”
“Too late,” Luca replies, swinging one duffel over his shoulder with one hand and plucking Sofia gently from me with the other. “Our bags are packed. Plane’s fueled. Security’s cleared.”
“You’re actually letting me come on this one?” Jack asks, half-joking, half-incredulous.
Luca gives him a look. “You’ve been clean for four years and ten months. You’ve earned your seat on that plane.”
