“You may kiss,” the officiant said, smiling.
Matteo didn’t hesitate. He cupped my face and kissed me fully, openly, without turning away this time. No secrecy. No restraint. Just love – warm and real and overwhelming.
Cheers, laughter, applause – pure happiness spilling out around us. I heard Maria and Kali cry. Natalia laughed with joy. Trevor whistled. Zach shouted something joyful.
“Mi Donna…” Matteo kissed my cheek after we pulled away, smiling like he couldn’t believe this was real.
But it was.
And for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly right.
My father’s home office smelled like old leather, espresso, and polish – the same way it had my entire life. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the manicured gardens, sunlight cutting through the room in long, golden stripes. Somewhere beyond these walls, florists adjusted peonies and musicians tuned their strings for my wedding.
But in here, it was business.
Matteo sat beside me, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless. My hand rested lightly against his wrist – grounding, familiar. Across from us sat my father behind his desk, Enzo DeMone in full command of the room without raising his voice. Gìo leaned back in one of the armchairs, smoking a cigar, calm and unreadable.
And then there was Salvatore Moretti.
He sat comfortably by the window, cradling a one-month-old baby girl like she weighed nothing at all, yet the entire world at the same time.Amaya Rose. Pink bow, sleepy eyes, tiny fist curled against his chest. The contrast was almost absurd – one of the most powerful men in New York’s underworld gently rocking a newborn, murmuring nonsense under his breath when she shifted.
He didn’t look scary. He looked… Softened. Changed.
Natalia had made up with her father. I knew that much. I didn’t know how, or what it had cost, but seeing him like this told me it was real.
And seeing how happy she was earlier, and the fact that she trusted her father with her baby girl… I knew it all must’ve worked out.
The meeting moved quickly – territories, timing, alliances.
Then Gìo straightened slightly, shifting the air in the room without saying a word.
“I’m ready to move forward with my marriage,” he said evenly. “Everything’s in place.”
Both Matteo and I were surprised. He’d been secretive for months. Meticulous. Too quiet about it.
I looked between them. “You do?”
Dad's gaze flicked to me, something knowing in his eyes. “I approve of Gìovanni’s choice.”
Of course he did.
Gìo’s mouth twitched – barely a smile as he smoked his cigar. He said nothing else.
I opened my mouth to askwho, but a knock at the door came first.
My father glanced up from his desk. “Come in.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see the door open, and for no one to step inside, but Carmen Moretti.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked, voice calm, posture perfect – light brown hair swept back, dress immaculate.
I didn’t react. Not outwardly.
Inside, something cracked.
My gaze slid immediately to Gìo.
His face was composed, apathetic at first glance – business as usual. But this time, I didn’t miss it. The glint beneath the calm. The tension held too carefully in his jaw. The look of a man standing exactly where he intended to stand.
