The cemetery is quiet this early in the morning. Frost clings to the grass, and my breath mists in the cold air.
It’s the first time I’ve been here since the funeral. Before, I was too raw to face it, too angry to stand at his grave knowing the man responsible was still breathing.
But today feels different.
It feels right.
“You want me to wait in the car?” Enzo asks.
“No.” I reach back, find his hand. “Stay.”
He squeezes my fingers, then lets go as I move forward and kneel in the grass in front of the headstone that reads Marco Antonio Moretti. Beloved Brother.
I set the lilies down and sit there for a moment. Let the grief wash over me without drowning in it.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Sorry it took me so long to visit. Things have been… complicated.”
Understatement of the century.
“I got him,” I continue. “The man who did this to you. I killed him myself, and I’m not sorry about it.” My throat tightens as the memory replays in my head.
“I know you’d probably tell me I’m an idiot for getting involved with Enzo. That I should’ve just let it go, moved on, lived my life. But I couldn’t. And now—”
I glance back at Enzo. The bond mark on my shoulder aches faintly, a reminder of who I belong to. I’d asked him for it three months in, clearheaded and certain. This time, he’d said yes.
“Now I’m bonded to a mafia boss.” I smile. “Living in his house. Working with his family. And Marco, I’m happy. For the first time since you died, I’m actually happy. I hope that’s okay. I hope you’d understand.”
The wind picks up, and I like to think it’s Marco’s way of answering. Telling me he gets it, that he’s not disappointed.
“I miss you. Every day. But I’m learning to live with it. Learning to live, period. Just like you wanted me to.”
I stand, brush frost from my knees. Enzo is there immediately, arm around my waist.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” I lean into him. “I am.”
We stand there for another moment, the three of us. Me, Enzo, and Marco’s memory. Then I turn away, and Enzo guides me back to the car.
“Where to?” he asks once we’re inside. The heat is blasting, chasing away the cemetery’s chill.
“Home,” I say. Simple as that.
Home is the estate that I’ve stopped thinking of as Enzo’s and started thinking of as ours.
In four months, I’ve made my mark on the place. Books on the shelves that Enzo would never read—literary fiction and true crime, my two vices. A desk in the study that’s perpetually messy with my analysis work. Small things in this huge mansion, but they matter. They make the space mine too.
Our bedroom is the biggest change. What was once just Enzo’s space is now ours in ways that go beyond sharing a bed. I have my clothes in the closet next to his suits. My suppressants in the medicine cabinet, even though I barely use them anymore. And in the corner, the nest I’ve been building for when Enzo’s traveling, or just for comfort when I need it.
It started unconsciously with me grabbing Enzo’s shirts, some blankets, and arranging them in a corner of the room. Omega instinct, preparing for heat even though I was weeks away from needing it. But Enzo noticed, and instead of making fun of me or pushing back, he started leaving his worn shirts where I could find them. Added pillows without being asked. Made space for this need I’d been suppressing for years.
Now the nest is complete, and just looking at it makes my heart settle.
“Coffee?” Enzo asks, shrugging out of his jacket.
“Yes, please,” I reply, already heading for the nest, that pre-heat instinct drawing me. “Are you busy today?”
“Meetings this afternoon. Why?”
