Page 157 of The Cost of Silence

He’s the man who killed my father, who tried to burn me alive, who spent decades turning a family name into an anchor.

Nico comes to stand beside me. His hand finds mine again, his fingers warm. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I say honestly. “But I think I will be.”

We watch as Adi directs the cleanup, his voice calm and precise. Matteo talks to the tactical team leader, gesturing to Domenico’s body.

“The board member?” I ask, remembering Domenico’s earlier brag. “The one still loyal to the old ways?”

“We’ll find him,” Adi says, joining us. “Rossi had names. Domenico confirmed one when he thought we weren’t listening. We’ll dig him out like the weed he is.”

“And Orlov?” I ask, glancing at the Russian as he gets into a large SUV.

“Orlov is done,” Nico says. “One way or another. He’s not our main problem anymore.”

“That was him,” I say, nodding toward Domenico.

“That was him,” Matteo agrees.

We stand there a moment, the four of us, in the place their father started, the place their uncle tried to reclaim.

Legacy hangs heavy in the air.

It doesn’t feel like a chain anymore.

It feels like a choice.

Nico turns to me, his face softening in a way it never does out here. “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet the rest of the family,” he says.

I snort, the sound half-hysterical, half-relieved. “Next time we’ll stick to turkey and cookies.”

He leans his forehead against mine, the world receding briefly to just the two of us. “There will be a next time,” he says. “Christmas. New Year. All of it. We’re going to make it there, you and me.”

“I know,” I say, and this time I believe it.

“We’ll go home soon,” he says, voice low. “We’ll clean this up. We’ll talk to your mother. We’ll sit Rossi up in his hospital bed and tell him he was right all along.”

“And then?” I ask.

“And then,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth, “we build something they can’t burn down.”

Epilogue: Isabella

One year Later

Christmas Evein the penthouse smells like cinnamon and coffee and something savory in Matteo’s giant roasting pan.

Again.

I’m beginning to suspect the man missed his calling as a chef.

“Hands off the potatoes,” he barks without looking up as Nico reaches for the tray.

“I wasn’t touching them,” Nico lies.

“He absolutely was,” I say, sliding past them with a bowl of salad.

Letty zooms through the kitchen in an explosion of tulle and sparkles, chasing the cat with a Santa hat held aloft. “Come back, Mr. Whiskers, you’re not festive enough!”