"I know." My thumbs brush her cheekbones. "It's still true."
She studies me for a long moment, like she's searching for cracks, for distance. She doesn't find any. Neither do I.
"I didn't know I wanted this," I admit. The words come easier than I would expect them to. "This life. This feeling. I thought I understood power. Control. Legacy." My voice drops. "Turns out I understood nothing."
Her hands slide up my arms, grounding, warm. "Does that scare you?"
"Yes," I say without hesitation. Then, softer, "No."
I rest my forehead against hers, let myself be still. Let myself be here. I study her face up close, the familiar lines, the strength she's always carried, even when the world tried to bend her. And for the life of me, I can't understand how I ever let myself hate her. Resent her. How I convinced myself she'd betrayed me. Thethought turns sour in my chest. I should have known better. Should have trusted the woman who stands in front of me now, the woman who faced hell today without flinching, who chose truth even when it cost her everything. Jenna would never have walked away from me if she'd known. Never would have kept my son from me out of spite or fear or convenience.
The fault lies with me. I was too busy sharpening my knives. Too busy building a vengeance that I thought righteous. A rage that gave me direction, purpose. I needed someone to blame, and she was silent and unreachable, and therefore, easy. That vengeance carried me for ten years. And now I know it was built on a lie.
The realization doesn't undo what I did. My uncle is still dead. My cousins are still dead. Blood answered blood, and I can't pretend otherwise. I told myself it was inevitable—and maybe it was—but knowingwhyI did it doesn't settle easily anymore. I don't know what to do with that yet.
I don't know how to reconcile the man I was with the man standing here, holding the woman he once swore he'd never forgive. The man who thought power meant control, and who is only now learning it might mean restraint.
My hands tighten slightly on her face, not to trap her—never that—but to anchor myself.
"I was wrong," I say quietly. Not an apology yet. Just the truth, laid bare.
Her eyes soften, not triumphant. Not relieved. Just… present. Making something inside me shift. The vengeance that defined me doesn't vanish, but it loses its center. It no longer has her face. No longer has her name carved into it. Whatever comes next—El Recaudador, Kingsley, the reckoning still circling—I'll face it differently. Not fueled by a lie. But by the certainty of what I almost destroyed… and won't lose again.
I kiss her. It's not urgent. Not claiming. Just… necessary. When we break apart, I don't step away. I stay right there, my forehead resting against hers, my breath still tangled with hers.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
She blinks. "For what?"
"For you," I answer without hesitation. "For Amauri. For the truth. For everything."
Before she can respond, I scoop her up, effortless and familiar, and she lets out a soft laugh of surprise as she slings her arms around my neck. She fits against me like this was always the shape we were meant to take.
"Thank you," she says back.
I smile, unable to stop myself. "For what?"
"For being you," she replies simply. "For being who you are. For bringing Amauri back to me. For loving him. For taking care of us."
Each word lands heavier than the last.
"You deserve that," I tell her, my voice rough now. "And so much more, Jenna."
She looks at me like she believes it. Like it's obvious. Like it's not unraveling something deep and structural inside me. She has no idea what she's doing to me. No idea how close I am to breaking under the weight of being seen like this, not as a king, not as a weapon, not as a consequence, but as a man worthy of love. Worthy of a family.
I carry her down the hall, past the quiet rooms, past the place where our son sleeps, safe and exhausted and whole. For the first time in my life, I don't feel like I'm taking something. I feel like I'm being given everything.
In the bedroom, I set her down with care. The lights are low, and gold and indigo shadows spill against the floor. For a moment, neither of us moves, and then she tilts her head, like she's waiting for a verdict, or maybe for me to admit I'm makinga mistake. I'm not. I'm exactly where I want to be. And I'm not leaving it to chance again. Yesterday, between meetings, blood, and business, I walked into a private jeweler and bought a ring that could anchor a continent. Not subtle. Not delicate. A stone that catches light like it owns it. Like she does. I didn't ask for advice. I didn't compare options. I saw it. I knew.
It's in my pocket now. Heavy. Solid. A promise I intend to keep this time. She won't walk away from me again. Not because I'll cage her. Because I'll give her no reason to.
I reach into my pocket. Her breath stills. The velvet box is small in my palm. Unassuming. It doesn't need spectacle. I flip it open. The diamond catches the light immediately. Big. Unapologetic. Cut to command attention. Her eyes widen.
"Oh my God, Massimo?—"
"Now that you're a widow," I state calmly, "I believe I'm allowed to correct an old mistake." Her lips part. I don't kneel. I don't need to. "I should have put this on your finger years ago," I continue. "Before politics. Before fear. Before anyone convinced you that you belonged anywhere but with me."
My thumb brushes her jaw.
