She beams up at me with an expression I’ve never seen before.
“I love you too,” she says, her voice soft.
I study her eyes. The strength is still there. I haven’t tamed her—I chose her, and she chose me.
We lie there together for what feels like forever, not speaking, just delighting in the bliss of the moment.
Finally, as the sun begins to set, we get out of bed, dress, and go downstairs together.
Our parents are in the study. My father is reading while Valeria writes something in her journal. They both look up as we come in.
I glance at Sable, then back at the two of them.
“We have something we need to tell you.”
I suspect they already know, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing they can say can stop the inevitable. My life is now all about her—protecting her and ruling with her.
And no one alive can stop that.
EPILOGUE
RYKER
Five years later…
I sit in my recliner in the living room—the massive black chair I call “The Throne”—and watch as my son, Jet, aims his little wooden gun at his mother.
“Pew! Pew!” He laughs as Sable groans and falls backwards, pretending she’s hurt.
Giggling, Jet skips over to her and falls into her arms. I sip my drink and marvel at the wondrous peace and tranquility that is now my life.
The war is over. The Brambilla family has been scattered to the wind, and the Vale-Noir family reigns over Chicago.
The walls of this house used to be guarded by a fleet of armed men. Now only a small few remain.
Our potential enemies know better now. Sable and I didn’t suddenly become less dangerous when we became parents. But our power is so widespread that no one can stand against us.
Even the cops are fully paid off at this point.
Last month, one of our men slipped up collecting a payment and was reported by a bystander. The lieutenant who arrived onscene recognized he was part of our family immediately and let him go.
No one screws with the king and queen of Chicago.
In fact, just the other week, Sable and I were talking about how if we weren’t busy parenting Jet, we might just expand our operation. Without him, ruling with this level of power—with no one to oppose us—would just be boring.
Jet laughs again, the sweet little giggle that always goes right to my heart, and I rise from my chair and sweep him up into my arms.
“There’s my little tough guy,” I tease, tickling him in the spot that always gets him. He squeaks and twists in my arms, but I hold him tight.
Becoming a father truly changed me. But it didn’t make me weak—it made me sharper. More careful. I don’t want Jet to grow up in chaos. I want him protected by it.
He yawns in my arms, and Sable comes over, brushing his hair with her fingers. “Somebody’s sleepy,” she coos. “I think it’s time for a nap.”
Like many children, Jet doesn’t even protest. He curls up in his mother’s arms as she walks him to his room and puts him down. I just watch from the door, taking in the scene as she tucks him in and he closes his little eyes.
I turn off the light and Sable switches on his little star projector that covers the walls and ceiling with soft white dots that mirror the night sky.
I watch my wife as she walks over to me.
