I kiss her. “I promise I will.”
I take her hand then. Her fingers slide into mine without hesitation, and I use it to tug her out of the bathroom andinto the hallway. For so long, touching her felt like reaching for something I wasn’t allowed to have. Like every brush of skin was a reminder of betrayal, of grief, of everything that had been stolen from us.
Now it feels like reclaiming both our past and our future.
We follow the sound of our son’s laughter echoing down the hallway together. It carries easily through the high ceilings, bright and unburdened by the horrors of this world. It bounces off marble and stone, filling spaces that once felt cavernous and hollow. I never realized how quiet this house had become until that sound returned to it.
Untillifehad returned to it.
The villa is still a fortress. Outside these grounds, the world still holds enemies with old vendettas and men hungry enough to believe they could topple the Cosenza name if they just push hard enough.
There will always be someone waiting, there will always be another war brewing on the horizon, but tonight, this place doesn’t feel like the future grounds of a battle.
It feels like a place my son can run barefoot through halls without fear. One where Elena won’t have to sleep with one eye open. A place I can stand in the doorway and know that no one is ever going to take them from me.
I’ve built an empire out of loyalty and ruin. I’ve defended the name of my family after it nearly broke me. However, for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m standing alone at the top of what was once nothing more than a burial ground of my past, present, and future.
I’m in a place where love, and life, can survive.
EPILOGUE
Elena
The terrace doors are open to the late-afternoon sun, stirring the gauzy curtains until they dance against the stone floor.
I stand at the railing, one hand resting on the warm iron, the other cradled low over the small, firm curve of my belly. Twenty-two weeks. Far enough that the world can see it now, close enough that every flutter still feels like a secret between us.
It’s funny how quickly life can change in just a year.
Below, the garden is alive with voices.
Luca races across the lawn with two younger boys from the village. They’re playing some chaotic version of keep away, barefoot and shouting as a ball skids wildly over the manicured grass. Luca’s dark hair bounces with every step he takes. His laugh rings clear and bright.
I watch him and feel my throat tighten.
A year ago, I stood on this same terrace and wondered if I’d ever stop waiting for the next gunshot to ring out, the next black car to follow behind us, the next betrayal that would tear everything I loved apart again. A year ago, I still woke up from nightmares reaching for a weapon, my heart hammering in my throat because I thought I heard footsteps climbing up the stairs to get to us.
Now the only footsteps I hear are Luca’s running to tell me about a goal he scored or Dante’s coming to find me when his meetings are done and he’s eager to see me.
The Cosenza empire is different now.
Dante has spent the last year hunting every loose thread connected to Enzo and Carlo. Whatever remaining lieutenants, including the Bellanti Don who slipped away that night and was never found again, have slowly been taken out one by one.
Not all of them with bullets—some with exile, others with deals that left them too afraid to ever speak the Cosenza name again. Dante didn’t want a complete bloodbath, but he did want the guarantee of safety.
Somehow, against every doubt I’d carried for so long, he’s done just that.
Romano still handles the ports. Bianchi still oversees the security teams and tactical enforcers. Leonardo, who once dragged me out of Brooklyn in the middle of the night, now spends most of his time training the younger men and complaining when they don’t respect the old ways.
Everyone these days seems much happier.
I hear him before I see him, the faint creak of leather against stone as he moves down the hallway toward me.
When I turn, I find Dante standing in the doorway to our bedroom. He steps out onto the terrace, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open, hair still damp from the shower he must have taken after his last meeting.
“He behaving himself down there?” he murmurs, eyes moving down to the gardens below.
I smile without looking away. “Well, if you call terrorizing the neighborhood kids behaving, then yes.”
