"Then that's enough for me." He hugs me one more time, then releases me with a watery smile. "Now. Are you going to makethat man sit in the car all day, or are you going to invite him in for coffee?"
I laugh, surprised. "You want to have coffee with Dante?"
"I want to have coffee with the father of my grandchild." He shrugs, a hint of his old humor returning. "If that happens to be a former mafia boss, well. I've had stranger clients."
I wave Dante over. He approaches cautiously, like he's not sure whether Richard might produce a weapon. Which, given our history, is fair.
"Mr. Quinn," Dante says formally.
"Richard," Dad corrects. "If you're going to marry my daughter, you can call me Richard."
"Richard." Dante extends his hand. "I want you to know—I'll spend the rest of my life taking care of her. Both of them."
Dad studies him for a long moment, then shakes his hand firmly. "See that you do."
It's not forgiveness, not exactly. But it's a start.
And sometimes, a start is all you need.
Two YearsLater
The vineyard in late summer is something out of a dream.
Rolling hills covered in neat rows of grapevines, the leaves turning golden in the afternoon sun. A small chapel at the crest of the highest hill, white stone and stained glass, intimate enough for the fifty people we've invited to witness this moment.
Two years. It's been two years since the night Bogdan and Radimir tried to destroy everything we were building. Two years since Dante walked away from the Bratva and we started building a life that doesn't require panic rooms or armed guards at every entrance.
Well. Fewer armed guards, anyway. Some habits die hard.
We could have gotten married sooner. Dante suggested it a dozen times in those first months, impatient to make it official. But I wanted to wait. Wanted to build our new life first, to establish the vineyard, to make sure we were truly free from his old world before we celebrated with everyone we loved.
Besides, planning a wedding while pregnant, then with a newborn, then while moving across the country seemed like a special kind of torture. Some things are worth waiting for.
"Stop fidgeting," Delilah orders, adjusting the lace at my shoulder. "You're going to wrinkle the dress."
"I'm six months pregnant," I remind her. "I don't think wrinkles are the main issue."
"You look gorgeous, and you know it."
She's right, though I'd never admit it out loud. The rose-gold gown fits perfectly despite my swollen belly, the color complementing my red hair and the slight glow pregnancy has given my skin. The designer somehow managed to make me look elegant instead of like I swallowed a basketball.
Sofia toddles across the bridal suite, her dark curls bouncing with each unsteady step. At fifteen months, she's into everything—a tiny hurricane of curiosity and determination that reminds me so much of her father it makes my chest ache.
"Mama pretty," she announces, reaching for the hem of my dress with sticky fingers.
I scoop her up before she can do any damage, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. "Thank you, baby girl. You're pretty too."
She's wearing a miniature version of Mila's junior bridesmaid dress, all tulle and flowers. Getting her into it this morning required bribery, threats, and eventually Dante's intervention. She's a daddy's girl through and through.
A soft knock at the door, and my father pokes his head in. "Can I come in?"
"Dad!" I turn too quickly—pregnancy has done nothing for my balance—and Delilah steadies me with a practiced hand.
Dad looks better than he has in years. The stress lines that appeared during those weeks when he was accused of embezzlement have faded completely. He's healthy, happy, working as a legitimate accountant for legitimate businesses. He splits his time between Chicago and Napa now, spending long weekends helping with the vineyard's books and even longer weekends spoiling his granddaughter rotten.
"You look beautiful, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick with emotion.
"Don't cry." I hand Sofia off to Delilah. "If you cry, I'll cry, and Maria spent an hour on this makeup."
