Alessio reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small, tarnished key. He places it in my palm and closes my fingers over it.
"This is the key to a cabin on the far edge of the property," he says. "It’s separate from the main house. It’s quiet. It has a view of the lake and enough room for a library and an office that doesn't feel like a bunker."
I look at the key. It’s cold in my hand, but it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
"Is this where we’re going?" I whisper.
"It’s where I’m going," Alessio says, his voice thick with an emotion he usually keeps under lock and key. "I’m hoping you’ll decide to meet me there. No one is making you stay, Amara. But that door stays unlocked for you."
I look at him—really look at him. The early silver in his hair, the scars on his hands, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that makes sense. For eleven years, he carried the secrets of his family’s slaughter alone. For ten years, I carried the grief of my brother’s murder alone.
We’re both tired of carrying things.
I lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like a vow.
"I’ll be there," I say. "But I’m picking the curtains."
"Deal."
He wraps his arm around me, pulling me into the crook of his shoulder. We sit there on the swing, swaying back and forth in the gathering dark. The wind whistles through the pines, and for once it doesn’t sound like a warning.
It sounds like home.
I think about the compound back in Chicago. I think about the steel doors, the cameras, the blood in the courtyard. It feels like a horror flick I finally walked out of.
I’m still Amara Osei. I’m still the woman who can find a needle in a digital haystack and a lie in a hundred-page ledger. I’m still the woman who knows how to turn a ledger into a weapon. But I’m also the woman who is going to endow a scholarship in her brother’s name. I’m the woman who is going to live in a house with no panic room.
I’m the woman who is loved by a man who would burn the world down just to keep me warm.
"Alessio?" I mutter, my eyes drifting shut.
"Yeah?"
"Don't let me oversleep tomorrow. I want to see the sunrise over the mountains."
"I’ve got you," he whispers.
And at last, I actually believe him.
The morning comes early, the light gray and soft against the windowpanes. I wake up before the alarm. Beside me, Alessio is still asleep, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see. He looks younger like this, the weight of the last eleven years loosened from his shoulders.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake him, and pull on a thick sweater. I walk through the quiet house, past the rooms where the other brothers are still sleeping, and out onto the porch.
The sun is just starting to peek over the edge of the world. It’s a sliver of gold that turns the frost on the grass into a field of diamonds. The mountains are a deep, jagged purple, their peaks catching the first light and turning into beacons of fire.
It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s everything I never thought I’d have.
The door creaks behind me. I don’t turn. I know his steps now. I can feel the change in the air when he steps outside. He walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"You missed the first five minutes," I tease, leaning back against him.
"I didn't miss anything important," he rumbles, his grip tightening.
We watch the sun rise together, the light flooding the valley and chasing away the last of the shadows. It’s a new day. A new normal. The sunrise isn’t just something happening outside me anymore. It’s the first page of a book I’m finally brave enough to read.
And for a woman who spent a decade in the dark, the light is blindingly, perfectly enough.
The kitchen starts to bustle around 7:00 AM. Matteo is the first one down, but he doesn’t head for the coffee. He heads for the pantry. I watch from the doorway, leaning against the frame as he pulls out flour, yeast, and salt. His movements are musclememory, a grace that looks entirely out of place in a man with shoulders that wide. He’s not making a tactical plan; he’s making bread.
