We move into the room, the door clicking shut behind us. The war is over. The betrayal is forgiven. And as I look at the man who burned the world down to save me, I realize that for the first time in my life, I’m not waiting for the countdown to hit zero.
I’m waiting for the first page of the rest of my life.
I am Gia Caruso. And I’m finally home.
EPILOGUE
GIA
Six Months After the War
The Caruso Estate, New York
"Rafael! If you ask me one more time if I need a pillow, I am going to sharpen my favorite fountain pen and stab you with it! I mean it, Rafael!"
I’m standing in the middle of the sun-drenched nursery, my hands on my hips—or where my hips used to be before they were annexed by the tiny human currently using my bladder as a trampoline. I am six months along, and according to the full-length mirror, I have officially transitioned to 'Human Watermelon.' My bump is prominent, a round, solid curve that Rafael seems to think is made of spun glass, hope, and prayer.
Rafael doesn't even flinch at the threat. He just stands there in the doorway, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal-grey vest and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing thecorded muscle of his forearms. He’s holding a plush velvet pillow like it’s a shield.
"The doctor said you need to keep your feet elevated, Gia," he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble that still makes my toes curl despite my irritation. "You’ve been standing for twenty-four minutes. You’re starting to tilt to the left. Sit the fuck down."
"I was picking out wallpaper! It’s a vital maternal instinct! The baby needs to know his mother has impeccable taste in French florals and isn't just a vessel for your obsessive hovering!" I huff, brushing a stray dark curl out of my face. My hormones are currently swinging between 'I want to kiss him until we both pass out' and 'I want to throw him into the koi pond.' "And stop shadowing me. You’re blocking the light. You’re like a very large, very well-tailored eclipse."
"I’m not hovering. I’m monitoring." He steps closer, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. He drops the pillow on the glider and wraps his hand around the nape of my neck, pulling me into his space. The sexual tension between us hasn't dimmed an inch; if anything, the pregnancy has made him even more primal, more territorial. He treats me like a sacred object, but the look in his eyes says he still wants to devour me. "You’re carrying my heir, little Gia. I’m not letting you tire yourself out because you have an obsession with rosebuds and pastel greens."
"It's not an obsession, it's an aesthetic," I correct him, though my body is betraying me, leaning into his strength. He smells like cedar, expensive scotch, and the crisp autumn air from outside. "And he's not an 'heir.' He's a baby. He’s going to play with blocks and spit up on your silk ties."
"He can do both," Rafael mutters, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
"It's adorable," a small, cheeky voice pipes up from the doorway.
We both turn. Laura is leaning against the frame, her arms crossed over her chest, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes. She’s ten now, and she’s grown so much in the last six months. Her curls are bouncy, her cheeks are full, and the terror that used to live in her gaze has been replaced by a sharp, sassy wit that she definitely inherited from me. She’s no longer the girl hiding under the stairs; she’s the princess of the Caruso estate, and she knows exactly how to handle the Butcher.
"Uncle Rafe is just being a clingy bear again, Gia," Laura giggles, walking into the room with the confidence of someone who owns the place. She goes straight to Rafael and hugs his waist. He doesn't even have to think about it; his hand drops to her head, ruffling her hair with a tenderness that still makes my throat ache. "He was pacing the hallway while you were napping. I told him you weren't going to float away, but he said he was 'verifying the structural integrity of the floorboards.'"
"I was checking the security logs," Rafael grumbles, though he doesn't pull away from her. "And the air filters. The dust levels in the east wing were unacceptable for a developing respiratory system."
"Liar," I tease, reaching out to tug on his vest. "You were hovering. Laura, tell him he’s being overbearing. "
"He's being totally overbearing," Laura agrees, looking up at him with a grin. "But he also told the chef to make those almond cookies you like for dessert—the ones with the extra powderedsugar and the orange zest that his mother used to make him—so maybe we should keep him for another week."
Rafael looks down at her, a small, genuine smirk playing on his lips. He’s become a father to her in every way that matters—protecting her, teaching her, and making sure she never hears a hostile gunshot again. The man who used to find "quiet spaces" only in the dark now finds them in the middle of a room filled with baby clothes and a ten-year-old’s laughter.
I watch them together, and the ghost of the past feels thin, like smoke clearing after a storm. This nursery used to be part of a museum, a locked shrine to a woman I never knew. Now, it’s a riot of color. There are books on the shelves about everything from salt-making to Sicilian myths. There’s a hand-carved rocking horse in the corner that Rafael spent three nights assembling, swearing at the instructions in two different languages.
"See?" Rafael looks at me, his eyes dark and burning with that familiar hunger. "The kid likes me. She recognizes quality management. Now, sit down before I have to carry you."
"You wouldn't dare. There are painters in the next room and I will tell them you’re a big softy," I challenge, my stubbornness flaring.
He doesn't say a word. He just sweeps me off my feet in one fluid motion, cradling me against his chest as if I weigh nothing at all. I let out a startled shriek, my hands flying to his shoulders.
"Rafael! Put me down! You have a bad shoulder! The doctor said you shouldn't be doing heavy lifting!"
"The doctor said I shouldn't lift heavy machinery, not my wife," he growls, his mouth ghosting over mine, his breath warm. "And you’re as light as a feather, even with the watermelon.”
“The painters!”
“Let them look. Let the whole goddamn world look. They need to know exactly who owns my heart."
