“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “You and me.”
I watch as he slides the ring onto his left hand, next to his wedding band. Two rings, two commitments. One to his past, and one to his future. Both sitting together like they were always meant to.
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“Good.” He flexes his fingers, looking at the ring catching the light. “Better than good. Right.”
I take his hand, bringing it to my lips, kissing both rings. “They would be so proud of you and how you’ve honored them.”
“I hope so.” His free hand cups my face. “But I’m done living for them, doe. I’m living for us now. For whatever future we build together.”
I wrap myself around him, and I can feel the ring against my back where his hand splays between my shoulder blades. Solid, warm, and permanent.
The next morning,I wake wrapped in Vincenzo’s arms, sunlight streaming through the French doors, and for a blissful moment, I forget everything except the warmth of his skin against mine.
Then reality crashes back.
I killed my father. The police are investigating. And we still have to deal with Dashamir.
“I can hear you thinking,” Vincenzo murmurs against my hair. “Stop it.”
“We have to meet with Dashamir today.”
Matteo arranged it while we were spending our wedding night together. Vincenzo got the place and time in a text just before we fell asleep.
“I know.” He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “But that’s later. Right now, I want five more minutes in bed with my wife without the weight of the world pressing in.”
“Five minutes,” I agree, burrowing closer.
We take an hour, and most of that hour I’m gasping his name and clenching the sheets.
The meetingwith Dashamir is set for noon at a warehouse that sits exactly on the border between Vici and Dervishi territory in northwestern Malus. Neutral ground, in theory, though nothing feels neutral with the Dervishis.
Vincenzo drives us there in his black Mercedes, one hand on the wheel, the other laced with mine. We don’t talk much. There’s not much to say that we haven’t already said.
The warehouse is as grim as I expected. Concrete and rust and the smell of motor oil. Dashamir is already there, leaning against a sleek black SUV with two of his men flanking him.
He looks cold. Unimpressed. Dangerous.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vici,” he says, and there’s something mocking in his voice. “Congratulations on your nuptials. I hear the reception was eventful.”
“We have what you asked for,” Vincenzo says, his voice clipped. He pulls out his phone and holds it up. “Don Agnello’s confession to killing Lira Dervishi.”
Dashamir takes the phone, and we wait in tense silence while he listens to the recording. His expression doesn’t change when Agnello admits to strangling Lira, or when he confesses to having his wife killed.
When it ends, he hands the phone back. “This is sufficient.”
“So we’re clear?” I ask, hope rising. “The debt is paid?”
“You may keep your lives.” His tone is flat. Cold. “That’s all you’re getting from me.”
Vincenzo goes very still beside me. “The deal was I’d get my guns back. The shipment that was stolen. That was the agreement.”
“The agreement,” Dashamir says icily, “was that you would deliver Agnello Montoni’s confession about my cousin’s murder, not kill him yourselves.”
“Didn’t you hear the recording?” I step forward, my voice shaking with anger. “He killed my mother. He also killed Vincenzo’s entire family. You can’t expect us to—”
“Agnello was mine to kill.” Dashamir’s voice drops to something deadly. “My revenge. My justice. You took that from me. So you don’t get your guns. You get to live. Be grateful.”
