I felt loved.
I felt truly, impossibly happy.
And standing there – on the edge of the ocean, at the edge of dawn, with the man who chose me and whom I chose back – I finally felt free.
I stood at the edge of the shore with her in my arms, the ocean stretching endlessly in front of us, the sunrise bleeding gold and rose into the sky like the world wasbeing reborn just for us. Waves whispered against the sand, steady and eternal, but I barely registered them.
All I could see was Francesca.
She leaned back into me, perfectly molded to my chest, her eyes closed, her wedding dress catching the first light of morning. The wind lifted a few loose strands of her hair, brushing them across my wrist. She looked peaceful – unguarded in a way I’d never seen before. And for a man who had spent his life watching over his shoulder, calculating exits and threats, that sight nearly undid me.
The sun rose higher, brilliant and warm, but it could never compete with her.
She opened her eyes slowly, as if waking from a dream, then twisted in my arms to face me. Her hands found my neck, steady and sure.
“Matteo?” She murmured.
I smirked, already knowing. I raised a brow. “Kiss?”
She nodded, smiling as she pulled me closer.
I leaned down and met her halfway. The kiss was slow, unhurried – salt on her lips, warmth everywhere else. Her fingers slid into my hair, anchoring me, while my arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against me like there was nowhere else either of us belonged.
“I love you, Matteo,” she vowed softly against my mouth.
“I love you more, Francesca,” I promised, smiling into the kiss.
We kissed again, longer this time, the sun warming our faces, the ocean bearing witness.
And for the first time in my life, I was exactly where I was meant to be.
I felt safe.
I felt loved.
I felt truly, impossibly happy.
And standing there – on the edge of the ocean, at the edge of dawn, with the woman who chose me and whom I chose back – I finally felt free.
THE END
EPILOGUE TWO
ONE MONTH LATER
Mid-July settled with the kind of heat that clung to skin and made tempers short.
We were finally sitting at the long table in Matteo’s penthouse, floor-to-ceiling windows open just enough to let the night air in. The city glittered below us, indifferent and alive. Maps were spread across marble, tablets glowing, names and routes layered over one another like scars.
It had taken everyone.
The Italian Mob. The Mexican Cartel. The Yakuza. The Bratva. Even the West Coast had stepped in for once.
Almost a year of blood. But it worked.
The name finally surfaced like rot breaking through water.
Tomás Víbora.
