It’s the most normal thing I’ve ever seen a Costa do.
"He needs the kneading," Alessio says from behind me. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a heavy flannel shirt, looking less like a surgeon and more like a man who belongs in the woods. "It’s how he processes. Some people talk, some people fight. Matteo bakes."
"And I hunt missing numbers," I say, a dry smile touching my lips.
"You do more than that, Amara." He turns me around, his hands heavy on my shoulders. "You’re one reason we’re standing here. You’re the reason the account finally closed."
I look into the kitchen again. Matteo is pounding the dough now, his jaw set. It’s a rhythmic sound—thump, thump, thump. It sounds like a heart.
"Does Dominic really mean it? No more 'family business' in the way we knew it?"
"We’ll always be a family," Alessio says, his voice taking on that protective edge that makes my skin tingle. "And we’ll always protect our own. But the war for the streets is over. We’re moving our assets into legitimate holdings. The scholarship is just the start. We’re turning the Costa name into something else."
"A legacy," I whisper.
"A legacy," he agrees.
Dominic walks in then, looking like he’s already put in a full day's work. He’s got a map spread out on the table, talking to Enzo about construction crews. There’s a frantic energy to him, a drive to get started.
"Amara," Dominic says, looking up. He doesn't call me 'guest' anymore. He says my name with a respect that is hard-earnedand absolute. "The trust documents for the Osei fund. I want you to sign as the primary executor. Alessio will be the second."
I walk over to the table. The papers are there, clean and white against the dark wood. I pick up a pen. My hand doesn't shake. I sign my name—Amara Osei—and then I look at the line below it.
The Curtis Osei Memorial Scholarship.
"It’s done," I say, my voice a little husky.
"Good," Dominic says. He looks at me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine. "Welcome to the family, Amara. For real this time."
I just nod, the weight of the acknowledgment settling over me like a heavy, warm blanket.
The rest of the morning is a whirlwind. Vehicles are loaded. The transition house is quickly stripped back down to its bare bones. We’re leaving it clean, but this time, it doesn’t feel like hiding. We’re just moving on.
I stand by the SUV, my hand on the door handle. I look back at the house, at the mountains, at the valley where the sun is now high and bright.
"Ready?" Alessio asks, standing beside me. He’s got my empty duffel bag in one hand and the key to our cabin in the other.
"Ready," I say.
I climb into the passenger seat. Alessio slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. The rumble of the motor is a steady, reassuring sound. We pull out of the gravel driveway, following the line of black SUVs as they snake down the mountain road toward the highway. Toward the future.
I look at the key on the console between us. It’s just a piece of metal, but it represents the first time in my life I’ve known where I’m going to be in a month. In a year. In a decade.
I reach over and rest my hand on Alessio’s thigh. He covers it with his own, his fingers interlacing with mine. He doesn't sayanything, and he doesn't have to. The way he holds my hand is enough.
We drive away from the graves and toward a place called Pine Valley.
Somewhere behind us, Chicago keeps our dead. Somewhere ahead, a mountain keeps a sister, a chapel, and a life neither of us has ever dared to want out loud.
Alessio’s thumb keeps moving over my knuckles. Left hand. Fourth finger. Back and forth, slow, like a man taking a measurement.
He thinks I haven’t noticed.
I’ve noticed.
28
ALESSIO
