We fell asleep like that. Tangled together. Wedding rings catching the light. Both overwhelmed and happy and exactly where we wanted to be.
***
Married life felt different in ways I couldn't quite articulate.
More solid. More permanent. More real.
Small moments became significant. Morning coffee together while Stefan wore my t-shirt and nothing else. Working in adjacent offices during the day. Coming home to our apartment—our home—every night. Falling asleep tangled together.
Stefan wore his ring constantly. Simple gold band. He caught himself looking at it throughout the day, still slightly amazed it was real.
"Still can't believe it?" I asked one morning.
"No. I keep thinking I'll wake up and it'll be a dream. That I'm still Stefan Romano trapped in my father's house." He smiled. "But then I see the ring and remember. I'm Stefan DeLuca. I chose this. It's real."
"Very real." I kissed him. "And permanent."
We'd settled into routines. Stefan worked on the financial reports. I handled security. We had lunch together most days. Dinner in our apartment most nights.
The club operated normally around us. The trial was over. The verdict was in. We'd won. Life continued.
Probation was easy—monthly check-ins with a probation officer who didn't actually care what we did as long as we paid our fines and didn't get arrested again. The fines were substantial but manageable. Community service was assigned but not onerous.
Everything felt stable. Normal. Like we might actually get to keep this.
Thursday evening. Five days after the wedding. Stefan had made pasta for dinner—he'd been teaching himself to cook and was getting good at it. We sat at our small kitchen table with wine and comfortable silence.
My phone rang. Elio.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said. His voice was tight. Controlled. "But we have a situation. You need to come to my office. Now."
"What kind of situation?"
"The kind you need to see for yourself. Bring Stefan if you want—this might be relevant to him."
I looked at Stefan. He raised an eyebrow.
"We're on our way," I said.
The club was busy. Normal Thursday night crowd. Music pounding. Beautiful people dancing and drinking. Nothing seemed unusual.
But Elio wouldn't call unless it was serious.
His office was on the second floor. Private. Secure. When we knocked, his voice called: "Come in."
We entered.
Elio stood by his desk, arms crossed. His expression was cold. Assessing. The strategist evaluating a threat.
And sitting in a chair, soaking wet from the rain: a young man.
Twenty-one, maybe. Dark hair plastered to his head from the downpour outside. Sharp intelligent eyes—dark brown, almost black. Italian-American features. Educated bearing despite being drenched and clearly exhausted. Expensive watch. Designer shoes ruined by rain and running.
He was trying to maintain composure but I could see the terror underneath. The desperate edge of someone who'd run out of options.
"This is Julian Bianchi," Elio said. His voice was flat. Professional. "Son of Winston Bianchi from Chicago. He showed up twenty minutes ago asking for sanctuary."
My blood went cold.
