“Then we’ll find another way,” I promise. “But at least think about it. For all of us.”
Isabella’s shoulders drop slightly, the fire in her eyes dimming to embers rather than flames. She tugs her hand away from mine, but gently now.
“I’ll... think about it,” she concedes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’m not promising anything, Silvo. That man is insufferable.”
I bite back a smile. “So was I, according to Carmela.”
“That’s different. You were just brooding and controlling. Maximo is...” She waves her hand, searching for words.
“Cocky? Arrogant?”
Isabella rolls her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “All of the above, and worse.”
“Just consider it,” I squeeze her shoulder. “For the family, yes, but for yourself too. Maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye.”
“Fine.” She straightens her blouse. “I’ll talk to him. Once. In public.” She points a warning finger at me. “And if he makes one inappropriate comment, the deal’s off.”
As Isabella leaves, I remain in the study, staring out at the Philadelphia skyline. For the first time since bullets started flying at those docks, a wave of genuine optimism washes over me.
If we pull this off—if the Morettis and De Lucas truly become family—Philly will never be the same. Our combined territories would stretch from the Delaware River to the western suburbs. Our manpower would double. Our influence would reach into sectors neither family could touch alone.
Most importantly, Alexei Tartarov wouldn’t stand a chance against a united front. The Russians might have resources, but they don’t have what we’re building here—blood ties, history, family bonds that run deeper than business.
Two of the oldest Italian families in Philadelphia united after three generations of bloodshed. The thought feels like something from a dream.
43
EPILOGUE
CARMELA
Istare at the calendar app on my phone for the fifth time today, counting the days since my last period. Six weeks. Six weeks and nothing.
The knowledge sits heavy in my stomach—or maybe that’s morning sickness.
I haven’t been able to look at eggs without gagging for days now.
From downstairs, Isabella’s voice rises in another argument with Maximo.
Two months of engagement haven’t softened their edges. If anything, wedding planning has given them even more to fight about.
“That’s not where the seating chart goes, you insufferable man!” Isabella’s voice carries up the stairwell.
“It’s a piece of paper,bella. Does it matter where I put it?” Maximo’s deep laugh follows.
“When it determines whether your uncle sits next to my aunt, whom he insulted at the engagement party, yes, it matters!”
I smile despite my nerves. For all their shouting about flower arrangements and guest lists, I’ve caught them in the gardenat night, her back against a tree, his hands tangled in her hair. They’re fooling no one but themselves.
The pregnancy test burns a hole in my purse where I’ve kept it hidden for three days. I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment—when Silvo is occupied with business and the house staff are changing shifts. That moment is now.
I lock the bathroom door and unwrap the test with trembling fingers. Following the instructions, I set the timer on my phone for three minutes and place the test on the counter.
Three minutes feels like three hours. I pace the marble floor, my mind racing with possibilities. A baby. Our baby. Silvo’s heir. A child born into this precarious peace we’ve built through blood and marriage.
The Tartarov threat has gone quiet—too quiet. Alexei hasn’t made a move since the ambush, but Silvo and Nico remain vigilant. Our families operate in an uneasy alliance, strengthened by Isabella and Maximo’s marriage but still fragile.
Is this the world I want to bring a child into?
