Magic isn’t in the tricks, or the illusions, or even the rush of Vegas lights.
Magic is in the people you share it with.
And it feels like magic now. Here. With them.
Everywhere with them.
Always.
As sleep pulls me under, one last thought lingers, settling over me like the softest whisper.
I didn’t need to steal this.
They gave it freely, wholly, and without hesitation.
Magic.
BONUS CHAPTER
ONE YEAR LATER
“War!”
The morning sun spills through the villa’s kitchen when Sylus explodes through the doors like a man possessed. Not a casual stroll, or one of his manic bounces. No, he slams both doors open and nearly takes out a chair on his way in. His dark hair is sticking up in at least ten directions, but my gaze slides lower, down his torso, where his already cropped shirt has ridden up even further, showing a glorious stretch of abs and tattoos.
Yummy.
God, I’m weak.
“My eyes are up here!”
I jolt a little in my chair, caught red-handed. My gaze flicks up, and that’s when I notice the streak of flour smeared across his cheek like war paint. I know better than to laugh, but the sight almost kills me.
“This is serious,” he insists with the dramatic flair of a man announcing the apocalypse. “Nonna Maria’s secret biscotti recipe has been stolen.”
The espresso machine hisses like it’s gasping in disbelief. We turn toward Koen, smartly finding the most reasonable one among us, who raises his steaming drink to his lips and stares at Sylus over the rim as if weighing whether this is an emergency.
“Stolen?” he questions, his eyebrow raised.
“Ripped from her wrinkled little hands by Nonna Bianca.” Sylus spits the name like it’s a curse. “That witch paraded into church this morning and flaunted it. She shoved biscotti under my nose, Koen. Made me eat it. And you know what?” He presses a flour-covered hand to his chest. “It was ours. Maria’s. I could taste it in my soul. And Maria cried into her rosary and said, mi dispiace, Sylus. The recipe is gone forever.”
Ezra groans beside me. “You’re talking about two eighty-year-old women in a bake-off rivalry.”
“Ezra.” Levi gasps from his other side. “Show some respect. This is Sylus’s heritage. This is legacy. This is?—”
“Cookies,” Ezra deadpans.
“Biscotti!” Sylus roars, pointing at him. “It’s art, you heathen!”
I bite my lip hard to keep from laughing, my gaze bouncing between them like I’m courtside at the world’s most dramatic tennis match.
“Don’t you dare, Sparkle,” Sylus snaps, eyes narrowing on me. “You know how important this is.”
“I would never make fun of you or the nonnas, Sylus,” I sweetly reassure him, standing from my chair and raising to my tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Oh, I need a lot of things from you, Sparkle baby.” His voice drops an octave, using that tone that wraps around my spine and makes me forget my own name. Then he nips my throat, pulling a moan from me, but he ignores it and pulls away. When I lean back to look at him, his eyes flicker from sin to strategy.
