I stand up from the bench, brushing fallen leaves off my jeans.
“I hope you found peace,” I tell her headstone. “And I hope wherever you are, you can see that the daughter you couldn’t love ended up okay anyway.”
I walk back to my car, lost in my thoughts. My bodyguards are doing their best to make it look like they weren’t watching every move I make. I roll my eyes and gesture to my car. “Let’s go home,” I tell them and I can see the palpable wave of relief roll through them. I can’t help but smirk as I get into my car. It’s kind of fun to stress them out.
The drive back to the compound gives me time to process the strange mix of emotions swirling in my chest. Grief and anger and relief all tangled together in ways I’m not sure I understand. By the time I pull through the security gates, the sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
The compound looks different now—more like home than it did a month ago. The battle damage has been repaired, the bullet holes filled and painted over, the broken windows replaced, and the blood scrubbed away. Matteo had people working here day and night to make the mansion livable.
But there are still signs if you know where to look: scorch marks on the courtyard stones, a section of wall that’s slightly different color from the rest, a fountain that had to be completely rebuilt.
Evidence of the war we survived.
I park in my usual spot and walk through the main entrance, nodding to the security guards who I’ve known since infancy. The house feels lived-in again, comfortable in a way it didn’t when I was angry at everyone and everything.
I find myself gravitating toward Matteo’s study, the room where so many important family decisions have been made over theyears. The door is open, and I can see him sitting behind his desk, reading something on his tablet. He looks up when I appear in the doorway, putting aside his glasses—when did he get those?
“How did it go?” he asks gently, setting aside his reading and leaning forward to give me his undivided attention.
“Hard,” I admit, settling into one of the chairs across from his desk and pulling my legs up to my chest. “But good, I think. Necessary.”
He nods, understanding what I mean without needing details.
My eyes drift around the familiar room, taking in the expensive furniture, the family photos, the wall of books, and the priceless artwork that was probably procured under questionable circumstances. Bella is always telling him he needs to return them to museums.
And there, on the corner of his desk, is the photo of Giuseppe, Matteo, and Mario turned face-down.
“Why do you keep it like that?” I ask, nodding toward the picture.
Matteo follows my gaze and his expression grows thoughtful. “As a reminder,” he says.
My brow furrows. “Of what?”
“Of what not to become.” He reaches over and adjusts the frame slightly, but he doesn’t turn it upright. “Giuseppe built something powerful, but he built it on fear and cruelty. Every day I make decisions about this family, I look at that photo and ask myself: what would he do? And then I try to do the opposite.”
I study his face, seeing the weight he carries, the responsibility of leading a family while trying not to repeat the mistakes of the man who came before him.
“That’s what you’ve been trying to teach me, isn’t it?” I realize, feeling stupid for not getting this revelation earlier. “Not just how to be strong, but how to be strong without becoming a monster.”
Matteo gives me a small, tired smile. “You’ve always had the capacity for both,” he admits. “From the time you were little, I could see Giuseppe’s intelligence and ruthlessness in you. But I could also see something he never had—the ability to love and be loved. The question was whether you’d let that second part guide the first.”
“And now?” I demand, my heart thumping.
He reaches forward and takes my hand, squeezing it. “Now I think you’ve figured out how to be dangerous and human at the same time. That’s something Giuseppe never managed.”
I’m about to respond when I hear the sound that never fails to make me smile—little feet running down the hallway, accompanied by high-pitched giggles.
“Shh!” Arianna’s voice whispers loudly. “Banca no see!”
“Hiding!” Giovanni adds in his own stage whisper.
I glance at Matteo, who’s clearly fighting back laughter, then watch as two small figures creep into the study, tiptoeing dramatically toward the leather chair near the window.
“I don’t hear any little monsters in here,” I announce loudly. “I guess they must all be taking naps!”
More giggles, followed by shuffling sounds as they settle into their hiding spot.
“Nope, definitely no tiny people anywhere,” I continue, playing along. “What a relief. I would hate to have to?—”
