But Sienna had taught me that power shared was power multiplied.
And together, we were going to build something neither of our fathers could have imagined.
EPILOGUE
Sienna
The 3 a.m. feeding had become my favorite time of day.
I sat in the nursery's rocking chair, our daughter Lucia nestled against my chest, her tiny fist curled around my finger as she nursed. The room was bathed in soft light from the moon streaming through the windows, casting everything in silver and shadow.
She had Luca's dark hair and my gray eyes—a perfect blend of Romano and Moretti. At two months old, she was already showing signs of the stubborn streak that ran through both our bloodlines. She'd fought her way into this world three weeks early, screaming her arrival with such force that even the nurses had laughed.
Our daughter. Our miracle. The heir who'd united two empires simply by existing.
"You're supposed to be sleeping," Luca's voice came from the doorway, rough with exhaustion.
I smiled without looking up. "So are you."
He crossed to us in bare feet, wearing only sweatpants, his hair disheveled. Even bone-tired from late-night business calls and earlier feedings, he was still the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.
"I woke up and you were gone," he said, settling on the floor beside the rocking chair. His hand found my knee, thumb tracing idle circles. "Wanted to make sure you were okay."
"We're perfect." I looked down at Lucia, who'd fallen asleep mid-feeding, milk drunk and peaceful. "Aren't we, little one?"
Luca reached up to stroke our daughter's soft cheek with one finger, his expression so tender it made my heart ache. This man—who'd once been all cold calculation and ruthless violence—melted completely for this tiny human.
"She looks like you when she sleeps," he murmured.
"She looks like trouble," I corrected. "Just like her father."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Fair."
I carefully shifted Lucia to burp her, patting her small back with practiced ease. Motherhood had come more naturally than I'd expected, though the first few weeks had been terrifying. Every cry, every cough had sent me into panic mode until Luca or Isabella had talked me down.
"Marco called," Luca said quietly. "The Barzini meeting went well. They're accepting our terms for the territory dispute."
"Good. And the shipment from Rotterdam?"
"Cleared customs without issue. Your contact at the port authority came through."
This was our life now—whispered business discussions at 3 a.m. while our daughter slept, balancing empire building with diaper changes, negotiating peace treaties between feeding schedules.
Eight months ago, I stood in my father's study and claimed leadership of the Moretti family. Since then, we'd consolidated power, eliminated remaining dissidents, and built something stronger than either the Romano or Moretti empires had been separately.
My father had been dead for eight months, buried beside my mother in the family plot. I'd grieved him in complicated ways—mourning the father I'd wanted while accepting the one I'd had. Giuseppe remained in Alaska, his exile absolute. And Isabella had flourished under our protection, finishing her final year of high school with plans to study business at Columbia.
"You're thinking too loud," Luca said, reading me perfectly.
"Just... taking inventory. Making sure this is real."
"It's real." He stood, carefully taking Lucia from my arms and cradling her against his chest. She looked impossibly tiny against him, this fierce little life we'd created. "We're real. This family is real."
I rose and wrapped my arms around both of them, breathing in the scent of baby lotion and Luca's cologne. "I never thought I could have this. Never thought I'd want it."
"And now?"
"Now I can't imagine anything else."
