We leave the garage together, the three of us standing outside the warehouse, ignoring the screams and thuds from inside as we discuss this new information.
What happens next belongs to Nico and Vito.
That’s the line Luca drew years ago. I keep the family legitimate. Contracts. Courtrooms. Clean hands. My nephews handle what can never see daylight.
“Looks like someone needs a lesson,” Giovanni says. “Coming after the Family like that. They’re either cocky or stupid.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Luca says. “Either way, they’re dead.”
Hours later, we’re back at the house where Nico and Vito join us, looking somewhat the worsefor wear.
Luca pours a drink he doesn’t touch. I stand by the window with Giovanni, watching the city pulse below, waiting.
Nico speaks first. “He gave us a name.”
Vito doesn’t waste words. “We found him.”
I turn from the glass. “And?”
“Dead,” Nico says. “No witnesses. No loose ends.”
Luca nods once. Not satisfaction—confirmation.
It’s finished. Not ignored. Not postponed. The man who thought he could set us up and live long enough to enjoy it is gone. The message is delivered, even if no one knows it’s been sent.
Epilogue
Olivia
I’m in Roberto’s office with my laptop open and three browser tabs too many, the desk lamp the only light on. The rest of the house is quiet. The kind of quiet that used to make me itch now wraps around me like a blanket.
I answer two vendor emails, flag a comps report for tomorrow, and rework a social media caption so it’s less awkward.
Roberto’s office is comfortable to work in, but it’s not going to work for long. We’re going to have to set up a permanent office for me somewhere, I think.
And soon, because he asked me to move in and I said yes. Does it feel fast? On paper, sure. In my bones, not at all.
The last few weeks with Roberto have felt like years, and I can’t believe it’s taken us even this long to get to where we are now. So, sure, maybe it’s a little fast, but we’ve earned it.
We don’t want to wait another minute to start our lives together, so why should we?
Ilean back and let my eyes drift to the new picture frames on his desk. In the first, I’m laughing at something out of frame, hair shoved behind one ear. He took it while I was stirring sauce, said he wanted me “as I am.”
In the second, grayscale grain and a small bean at the center. I still can’t look at the ultrasound without losing my breath for a second. It’s ridiculous that something so small can rearrange a person’s entire future, but here we are. I rest my palm lightly over my abdomen.
Roberto isn’t home yet, but he texted that he’d be here soon. I stared at the dots longer than I should have and then put the phone facedown like that would make me cooler. Am I worried when he’s out? I’d be a liar if I said no. Worry is a muscle that’s being well-used now that I know the truth.
But, true to his word, he has answered every single question I’ve thrown at him. He hasn’t hesitated or danced around the truth once. If he can’t tell me, he says he can’t, plain and simple.
I close my laptop, and the room grows even softer, lit by the desk lamp. His chair still smells faintly like his cologne. It’s silly, but I pull the sweater he left on the back over my knees and check my list for the morning: VIP fruit plate at noon, comp audit at 2:00, meet security about camera blind spots at 4:00.
Headlights sweep briefly across the curtains from the street and move on. I breathe out.
My phone vibrates face down. I flip it: On my way. Five minutes.
I thumb back: I’ll be here.
I slide the frames an inch closer together—me and the crescent—so they touch at the corners. Then I pull the sweater tighter, tuck one foot up under me, and wait.
