My heart fluttered.
This was it. The moment. Our first dance as husband and wife.
Quentin took my hand, led me to the center of the dance floor. Everyone circled around us, phones out again.
The music started—"At Last" by Etta James. Classic. Romantic. Perfect.
Quentin pulled me close, one hand at my waist, the other holding mine. We swayed together, and everything else melted away.
The family drama. The murder investigation. The confession and the exile.
All of it gone.
Just us. Just this.
"Hi," he murmured.
"Hi yourself."
"We're married."
"We are."
"For real. Not strategy. Not legal protection. Not investigation."
"For real," I agreed. "Inconveniently, irrevocably real."
"Best inconvenience of my life."
"That's romance."
"That's truth."
We danced, and I let myself feel it—the happiness, the hope, the future stretching out before us.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me. On us."
"Couldn't if I tried."
The song built toward its crescendo. Quentin spun me out, then back in, dipping me dramatically as the final notes played.
The room erupted in applause.
We stood there, in the center of the dance floor, in the middle of our families, at the beginning of our life together.
"Ready?" he asked.
"For what?"
"Everything. Whatever comes next."
I kissed him—quick but real. "With you? Always."
The song continued. We swayed. Other couples began to join us on the dance floor—Carlo with Chiara, Stone with Serenity, Uncle Riccardo with an old friend of the family.
