Extended Epilogues

Artyom

One month earlier

Mikhail has been gone for three days, and the city always feels different when he’s not in it, like the balance is off by a few degrees. Maybe that’s why my patience is running thin tonight as I step out of the car and motion for Lev to follow me down the narrow side street behind the bars on the east end. The air smells like wet concrete and old cigarette smoke, and somewhere a dog is barking at nothing, which usually means someone is up to something.

Lucas Jones has been a problem for a long time—a small problem, but consistent, the kind that grows if you give it too much air. I didn’t mind him skipping payments or being late once or twice. People make mistakes. But stealing from me is something else entirely, and when I learned he’d been skimming off sales and pocketing cash, selling to people outside the routes we allow, I knew I’d need to deal with him myself, because Mikhail is too soft on him.

Lev walks half a step behind me, silent, steady, watching the shadows the same way I do. “You think we’ll catch him tonight?” he mutters.

“Doesn’t matter if we do,” I say, turning the corner. “I want to see who he’s meeting.”

“And if it’s nobody?”

I smirk. “That scum never meets nobody.”

We reach the mouth of the alley and the sound hits first—light footsteps, a nervous bounce in the rhythm. He’s pacing in the middle of the alley, hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket that looks too big for him. He keeps looking over his shoulder, muttering to himself, and for a moment I think he’s alone, which would annoy me because it means this trip was a waste.

But then someone steps out of the darkness behind him, and everything in me stills.

A woman walks toward him, small, light on her feet, her hair pulled back in a messy knot like she got ready in a rush. She’s not dressed for this part of the city, not dressed for meeting a dealer in an alley, not dressed for anything dangerous at all, and the second she reaches Lucas, she grabs his arm with both hands and pulls him close like she’s trying to hold him still.

“Where were you?” she demands, her voice low but sharp enough that it reaches me, trembling with anger that’s fueled by fear. “I waited for you. You said you were coming home. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

Lucas tries to pull away but she doesn’t let him. She steps in front of him, blocking his path, her small frame angled like she’s ready to fight him if she has to, and for a second I forget why I came here. Because her voice, her eyes, her entire presence hits me in a way I’m not prepared for, in a way that shuts out the rest of the alley, leaving only her and the tremor of her fingers around Lucas’s sleeve.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Lev murmurs behind me.

I don’t answer because I already know that. I already feel something cold slide between my ribs at the sight of her in this place, with this idiot, in the middle of what could easily become an ambush if anyone else knows Lucas is dealing on my territory tonight. She doesn’t move like someone who belongs in this world, like someone who knows what’s hiding in alleyways. She shouldn’t be anywhere near him.

“Let go,” Lucas snaps, jerking his arm, but she only tightens her grip.

“No,” she says, and her voice cracks halfway through the word. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing. You promised me you’d stop. You promised.”

There is something so painfully sincere in her voice that it knocks the breath out of me for a second, something I haven’t heard in years, something that feels too clean for this place. Lucas pulls back again and she finally releases him, her hands falling to her sides, and she exhales in a slow, shaking breath like she’s been carrying fear for hours and trying to hide it.

“Who is she?” Lev whispers.

I shake my head once. “No idea.”

But I want to know and that thought alone irritates me.

Lucas runs a hand through his hair, pacing again. “I told you, I’m fine. Go home.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice but not softening it. “You’re not fine. You look terrified. And you’re lying to me again.”

Lucas flinches.

I narrow my eyes. She knows him and worries for him, and that means she isn’t here for drugs or money. And that, more than anything, pisses me off. She deserves better than Lucas or this alley.

“Should we interrupt?” Lev asks quietly.

“Not yet,” I say, because I want to see more. I want to hear more. I want to understand why the hell Lucas brought someone like her here.

Lucas hisses under his breath, checking over his shoulder. “You don’t understand anything. I have to finish something. Then I’ll come home.”

“What are you finishing?” she demands. He freezes and she sees it instantly. “Lucas… what did you do?”

Lucas mutters something and tries to walk past her, but she steps in front of him again and pushes at his chest, not hard, just enough that he actually stops. She looks like she’s been crying. She looks like she’s been begging him for weeks, like she’s breaking her own heart trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

And suddenly there’s something tight and sharp inside me, something protective that I don’t understand and don’t want to understand, because it feels wrong. It feels intrusive. It feels like the beginning of something I should crush before it starts.

But I don’t, because Lucas leans in close to her and snaps, “I said go home,” and she doesn’t even flinch.

She lifts her chin, her jaw shaking with effort, and says quietly, “Not without you.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

“Why do you care?” Lucas snaps, pushing at her hand, his voice sharp enough that it echoes off the damp brick walls.

She lifts her chin, her jaw trembling with effort as she steadies herself, and when she speaks again her voice fractures right down the center.

“Because you’re my brother,” she says, and the word lands like something heavy. “Because you’re my family. Because I love you and I don’t want you to die out here trying to be someone you’re not.”

My breath slips out in a slow exhale I don’t plan.

Brother. So she’s not his girlfriend, just a sister who thinks she can save him. And the relief that moves through me is fast and irrational and makes absolutely no sense, because I shouldn’t care who she is to him, yet something inside me loosens anyway before tightening all over again for reasons I can’t explain.

Lucas groans, rubbing his face with both hands. “I don’t need saving. I need you to go home before you make everything worse.”

She steps in front of him again, blocking his path, shoulders squared even though she’s shaking. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Her voice breaks and something in my chest shifts uncomfortably, like a muscle I haven’t used in years suddenly waking up and not knowing what to do.

Beside me, Lev mutters under his breath, “She’s too soft for this place.”

He’s right, but I don’t like hearing it.

I stay in the shadows, watching the way she stares at Lucas with this mix of fury and heartbreak that feels too raw for a man like him to deserve, watching how she wipes at her cheek quickly when a tear slips out, watching how she doesn’t run even when he’s cruel, even when the alley feels colder because of the lies hanging between them.

Lucas tries again. “Kira, go home.”

Kira. Her name stays in my head longer than it should, lingering in a way that irritates me because it shouldn’t.

She pushes back. A girl like her, with her soft voice and trembling hands, pushes him back and refuses to move. He doesn’t deserve to be protected by someone who clearly loves him more than he loves himself. He doesn’t deserve her at all.

Lucas finally drags her into a shaky, uneven hug, whispering something into her hair that I can’t hear, and even then her posture doesn’t soften completely, as if some part of her is already preparing for the next lie, the next excuse, the next night she will spend wondering if he is alive.

When he takes her hand and pulls her toward the street, she follows him slowly, each step reluctant, her shoulders still tight, and just before they disappear around the corner she turns her head and looks back into the alley as though she senses somebody watching, somebody she can’t see but can feel in the dark.

She never spots me, but I see her clearly—the fear in her eyes, the confusion shadowing her expression, the brief moment where she searches the darkness as if expecting an answer. That look lingers in the air long after she’s gone, settling in the space she left behind, staying with me in a way I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try.

Her absence changes something in the alley, and when the silence folds in around me again, I realize I am still standing exactly where she last looked, as if part of me hasn’t quite stepped back into myself yet.

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Kira

One Month Later

I never thought a month could feel both impossibly long and impossibly short at the same time, but that is what the last four weeks have been—every day felt fuller than anything I’ve lived before.

Artyom and I have barely gone a single night without falling asleep tangled together, some nights exhausted, some nights still whispering things neither of us would have dared say a few months ago, and even though the world around us hasn’t gotten any quieter, I have. Something in me finally unclenched after everything that happened in that park, after Lucas left, after Artyom held me and told me I wasn’t alone anymore.

Maybe that’s why today feels less like a wedding and more like a beginning I never imagined I’d get to have.

Calina is fussing with my hair for the third time, pinning another strand back even though she already knows it’s perfect, while Milana sits cross-legged on the floor, watching. The room smells like perfume and hairspray and faintly like the roses Calina insisted we have everywhere, and the noise of last-minute preparations hums through the hallway like a heartbeat.

“Stop touching your hair,” Calina scolds for the tenth time, swatting my hand away gently. “You look like a dream. Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not ruining it,” I protest weakly, though my fingertips are still hovering near my curls. “It just feels strange. I’ve never worn anything like this before.”

“That’s because no one else was ever worth dressing up for,” Milana says from the floor, lifting her brows at me before smirking. “And trust me, he’s going to lose his mind when he sees you.”

My face warms instantly. “You think so?”

Both sisters look at each other and then at me with the exact same expression—fond, amused, and annoyingly certain.

“Kira,” Milana exclaims, fastening the last button on the back of my dress with careful fingers, “he looks at you like the world finally makes sense.”

Calina nods, standing to adjust the thin silver necklace she insisted I wear, her hands gentle. “He’s been pacing since dawn. Lachlan texted us this morning saying Artyom refused breakfast, threatened to throw out the tailor who tried to fix his tie, and almost shot a photographer who took a picture before he was supposed to.”

I blink. “He did not.”

“Oh, he did,” Milana says, laughing. “He’s nervous.”

“He’s Artyom,” I say, shaking my head. “He doesn’t get nervous.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Calina says, sliding my veil into place, “he does now.”

My stomach flips and settles at the same time, and when I look in the mirror again, I barely recognize myself. Not because of the dress, or the veil, or the soft makeup that makes my eyes look impossibly bright, but because I look… calm. Happy.

Calina steps back and clasps her hands dramatically. “Okay. We’re late. If we stay here any longer, he’ll break into the room himself.”

I laugh, breathless, and gather the skirt of my dress as we move toward the door. The fabric swishes around my legs and the sound makes something warm expand in my chest, something soft and almost unbearable, because I am about to marry the man who once walked into my apartment like a storm and somehow became the only place I feel safe.

The limo waits outside with the door open, dark and glossy, and when we climb in, I tuck the dress around my legs with shaking hands. Milana squeezes my knee once, Calina holds my hand, and the car starts moving through the quiet morning streets.

The city looks softer today, gentler, like it’s holding its breath for us. Snow from last night clings to the edges of the sidewalks, glittering under the winter sun. People on the street glance at the limo as we pass, unaware of the chaos and violence and love that brought us here, unaware of how close I came to losing everything before I even knew what it meant to have it.

“You’re very quiet,” Calina says.

“I’m trying not to faint or cry.”

Milana laughs, sliding her arm through mine. “Well, don’t. It’ll ruin your makeup.”

We pull up in front of the church and my breath catches. It’s a Russian Orthodox church, tall and white, its dark domes rising into the clear sky, the gold cross at the top catching sunlight in a way that feels like blessing and warning at once. Candles flicker in the windows, and the faint scent of incense drifts through the open doors where guests are already gathered.

The sisters step out first. Then Milana turns back and extends her hand toward me.

“Ready?” she asks.

I nod. “More than I thought I’d ever be.”

I step out of the limo, and the cold air rushes over my skin, making the veil flutter around my shoulders. People turn to look at me immediately—friends, distant acquaintances, members of the Bratva standing formally near the entrance—and somewhere above all the murmuring, I hear a low hum of approval.

Milana and Calina walk ahead, their dresses swaying with each step, and then the music begins. I take a deep breath, as the doors open wider.

I walk alone.

Artyom stands at the front of the altar and, for a moment, everything inside me stops. He looks… unreal. He’s not wearing his usual dark clothes or the expensive suits he uses like armor. He’s in a black shirt, formal and structured with ornate silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs, his hair pushed back, jaw tense, his hands clasped in front of him as if he’s trying very hard not to come get me himself.

When his eyes meet mine, something hot and overwhelming floods through me so quickly my knees almost buckle.

His lips part, just slightly. His whole body shifts and his eyes darken in that unmistakable, raw way he looks at me when he lets himself feel everything.

I can’t breathe.

When I finally reach him, he doesn’t wait for permission. He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers sliding through mine with such certainty that my breath catches again.

“You look…” His voice cracks quietly, something rare. “Kira, you look… ach, I don’t even have the words.”

I smile, lifting my free hand to touch the side of his jaw. “You’re shaking.”

He leans closer. “Not from nerves.”

The priest begins the ceremony, and we turn to face him together. The old chants echo through the church, deep and solemn, the kind that make your chest vibrate. Artyom stands beside me like a wall and a shelter all at once, his thumb brushing small circles against the back of my hand as if he can’t stop touching me even for a second.

Two crowns are placed above our heads, the priest blesses us in slow, rhythmic motions, and the incense smoke curls upward like a soft gray ribbon.

We drink from the same cup. Every move feels sacred, every breath like a vow.

When the priest finally says the last words, Artyom turns to me, lifts my hand to his lips, and kisses the ring he just placed there, slowly and reverently and so full of meaning that my throat closes.

His hand rises to my cheek. “You’re my wife,” he says quietly, like the words are too important to speak louder. “You’re my family. My life.”

My eyes burn. “And you’re mine.”

The applause swells around us, but it feels distant, blurred. All I see is him.

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Bianca

One Year Later

The terrace at Matteo’s penthouse overlooks Manhattan like a promise wrapped in gold.

Strings of bulbs cast a warm glow across the space, and inside through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the party in full swing. Rafe’s telling some story that has Luca doubled over laughing, while Enzo stands near the bar looking characteristically brooding until Isabella says something that makes his mouth twitch into an almost-smile. The penthouse is filled with people I’ve come to love over this past year—the Brotherhood and their partners, colleagues from the foundation, friends who’ve become family.

But out here, it’s quiet. Just me and the city and the weight of thoughts I can’t quite shake.

I lean against the railing, watching the sun sink behind the skyline, and press my hand against my stomach. Still flat. Still empty. Still waiting.

“You’re brooding.”

Alessia appears beside me, two glasses of sparkling water in her hands. She passes one to me with a knowing look.

“I’m not brooding. I’m thinking.”

“Same thing with you.” She clinks her glass against mine. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

I take a sip. The bubbles tickle my throat. “We’ve been trying for six months.”

“Ah.” She leans against the railing beside me. “And?”

“And nothing. Every month, the same disappointment. The same negative tests. The same trying to pretend it doesn’t gut me.”

Alessia is quiet for a moment. Inside, through the glass doors, I can see Dante and Matteo at the bar. Dante’s laughing at something—actually laughing, head thrown back, shoulders relaxed. A year ago, I didn’t think he was capable of that sound.

“Have you talked to a doctor?” Alessia asks.

“Next week. We have an appointment.” I twist my wedding ring—the one without the tracker, Dante assured me—around my finger. “It’s probably nothing. We’re just impatient.”

“Or stressed. You’ve had a hell of a year.”

That’s an understatement.

Mom’s death. The scandal. Adrian. Caterina. Building the foundation from nothing while grieving everything I’d lost.

But also—Dante. Our wedding. The life we’ve built together. The way he holds me at night like I’m something precious instead of something owned.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Alessia says softly. “I see someone who’s become so much stronger than she realizes. A year ago, you were drowning. Now you’re running a foundation that’s changing lives. You’re happy. You’re loved. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

My throat tightens at her words.

“The Elena Fund helped seventy families this quarter,” I say, my voice thick. “Seventy women who didn’t have to choose between treatment and survival.”

“That’s incredible.”

“It’s not enough.” I watch the last sliver of sun disappear. “It’s never enough. But it’s something.”

“It’s everything to those seventy families,” Alessia says firmly. “Stop minimizing what you’ve built. Your mom would be so proud.”

My throat tightens even more.

“I know.” I touch the gold cross at my throat—still there, always there. “I just wish she could see it. See what we built from her pain.”

“She can,” Alessia says with certainty. “I believe that.”

The terrace door slides open. Dante steps out, his eyes finding me immediately like they always do. Like I’m the only thing in any room worth seeing.

“Matteo’s opening the good whiskey,” he says. “Which means he’s about to make a speech. Fair warning.”

“God help us all,” Alessia mutters, but she’s smiling as she heads inside.

Dante crosses to me, and I notice the way he moves—confident, predatory, purposeful. His hand finds the small of my back, possessive and familiar. Home.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I lean into him. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Babies. Foundations. The fact that Matteo probably has a forty-minute toast prepared.”

Dante laughs. That sound again—warm and real and mine.

“He definitely does. I saw note cards.”

I turn in his arms, look up at him. The city lights catch his eyes, turning them silver-blue, and I’m struck by how much has changed. How this man who once terrified me now makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt in my life.

“What if it doesn’t happen?” I whisper. “The baby. What if we can’t—”

“Then we figure it out.” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Together. Whatever happens.”

“You say that like it’s simple.”

“It is simple.” He presses his forehead to mine. “You. Me. Whatever comes next. That’s all that matters.”

I want to argue. Want to list all the complications, all the fears that keep me up at night. But when he looks at me like that—like I’m worth everything he sacrificed to keep me—the words dissolve.

“I love you,” I say instead.

“I know.” His lips brush mine, soft and teasing. “I love you too. Even when you’re brooding on terraces at dinner parties.”

“I wasn’t brooding—”

He kisses me properly this time, cutting off my protest. But this isn’t the gentle kiss from a moment ago. This is possessive, demanding, the kind of kiss that makes my knees weak and my breath catch. His hand slides into my hair, angling my head exactly how he wants it, and I melt into him.

When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and flushed.

“What was that for?” I manage.

“Because you look beautiful tonight.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Because I’ve been watching you all evening in this dress and thinking about taking it off you later. Very, very slowly.”

Heat floods through me. “Dante—”

“I’m going to lay you down in our bed,” he murmurs against my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there, “and I’m going to make you forget every worry in that pretty head. I’m going to make you scream my name so loud the neighbors complain. And then I’m going to do it all over again.”

My breath hitches. “We’re at a party.”

“I know.” His smile is wicked. “Which means you have to behave yourself for the next hour. Think you can manage that, Mrs. Vitale?”

The way he says my married name sends a shiver down my spine.

“You’re terrible,” I whisper, but I’m smiling.

“You love it.” He kisses me again, quick and possessive, before stepping back and offering his hand. “Come on. Let’s go hear Matteo’s speech before he sends a search party.”

We walk inside, fingers intertwined, and I’m still dizzy from his promises.

The living room has filled up even more. Matteo stands near the fireplace, glass raised, waiting for everyone to settle. When he sees us, his grin widens.

“There they are! The guests of honor finally decided to join us.”

“We were admiring the view,” Dante says smoothly.

“I bet you were,” Rafe mutters, and Luca elbows him.

Matteo clears his throat. “Before this night ends and we’re all too drunk to remember it—except Dante, who remains annoyingly sober—I want to say something.”

He looks at Dante and me, his expression turning serious.

“A year ago, we stood in a cathedral and watched two people who started as strangers become something extraordinary. We watched a contract become a marriage. A transaction become love. And honestly? We weren’t sure it would work.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dante says dryly, and the room chuckles.

“But you proved us wrong,” Matteo continues. “You built something real. You took pain and loss and grief and turned it into The Elena Fund. Families have hope because of you two. Because Bianca refused to let her mother’s death be meaningless. Because Dante chose love over reputation.”

My eyes sting.

“So here’s to Dante and Bianca,” Matteo raises his glass higher. “To choosing each other every day. To building something that matters. To proving that even in our world, love can win.”

“To Dante and Bianca!” the room echoes.

Dante pulls me close, presses a kiss to my temple. “See? You’ve made me sentimental.”

“I’ve made you happy,” I correct.

“Same thing.”

When the party finally winds down and we say our goodbyes, Dante keeps his hand on the small of my back, that possessive touch that says mine. In the car ride home, his thumb traces circles on my thigh, a promise of what’s waiting when we get there.

And for the first time in months, I stop counting what I don’t have.

Start counting what I do.

A husband who chose me over everything.

A foundation that saves lives.

Friends who became family.

Nights where he makes good on his promises.

Days filled with purpose and love and laughter I didn’t know I was capable of.

And time. However much we get. However it unfolds.

That’s enough.

That’s everything.

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Dante

My father’s study hasn’t changed in twenty years.

Same mahogany desk. Same leather chairs. Same smell of expensive scotch and cigar smoke that used to mean safety when I was a kid.

Now it just means another negotiation I didn’t ask for.

“The Bellandis have agreed.” Giulio pours himself a drink, not offering me one. He knows I don’t touch the stuff. “Caterina is eager. Massimo is pleased. The wedding can happen within six months.”

I stay seated. Keep my expression neutral. Give him nothing.

“No.”

His hand freezes on the crystal decanter. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.” I cross one ankle over my knee, settling deeper into the chair. “I’m not marrying Caterina Bellandi.”

“This isn’t a request, Dante.”

“And that wasn’t an answer.” I let a smile touch my lips—the cold one, the one that makes men twice my age step back. “Find someone else to auction off.”

The glass hits the desk hard enough to slosh scotch over the rim. Good. I like him rattled.

“You’re being childish.”

“I’m being strategic.” I stand, move to the window, look out at the gardens Mom used to tend before the scandal broke her. Before the bottles took over. Before I found her on the bathroom floor. “Caterina doesn’t want a husband. She wants a steppingstone. Someone to climb on her way to more power.”

“And what’s wrong with that? She’s ambitious. Connected. Beautiful—”

“She’s a viper in Prada.” I turn to face him. “And I refuse to be her ladder.”

“The alliance would strengthen both families—”

“Your family is in ruins because of your choices. Don’t pretend this is about strategy.” I take a step closer. Watch him flinch. “This is about you clawing at relevance. Using my position to rebuild what you destroyed.”

His face goes red. “Everything I did was for this family—”

“Everything you did backfired.” The words come out flat. Controlled. I learned long ago that rage is a weapon best served cold. “And Mom paid the price.”

Silence.

The clock on his desk ticks too loud in the quiet.

“She would have wanted this,” he says finally. “An alliance. A proper wife. Grandchildren—”

“Don’t.” My voice drops to something dangerous. “Don’t you dare tell me what she would have wanted. You weren’t there. You weren’t holding her hand while she choked on her own vomit. You weren’t watching her die because she couldn’t survive the shame you brought on this family.”

He goes pale. Good.

“I loved your mother—”

“You loved what she represented. Status. Respectability. A pretty face at your political dinners.” I straighten my cuffs. Adjust my jacket. Armor back in place. “When she needed you, you were too busy saving yourself from the scandal to notice she was drowning.”

“Dante—”

“This conversation is over.” I head for the door. “I’ll marry when I choose. Someone I choose. For reasons that benefit me, not your desperate attempt to stay relevant.”

“If you refuse this, you’re on your own.” His voice follows me. Desperate now. Pleading underneath the threat. “I won’t help you when Matteo’s enemies come calling. When the other families question your judgment—”

“I’ve been on my own since I was twenty-three.” I pause at the door. Don’t turn around. “Since I became the man you were too weak to be.”

I walk out.

The hallway is cool and quiet, my footsteps echoing on marble floors that used to feel like home. I’m halfway to the front entrance when I see her.

Caterina Bellandi.

She’s leaning against the banister at the top of the stairs, perfectly posed like she’s been waiting for her cue. White dress—virginal, calculated. Dark hair swept over one shoulder. Red lips curved into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Dante.” She descends the stairs with practiced grace, each step deliberate. “I heard raised voices. I take it the meeting didn’t go well?”

“You were listening.” Not a question.

“I was concerned.” She reaches the bottom step, close enough now that I can smell her perfume—something expensive and cloying that makes my jaw tight. “Your father means well, you know. He only wants what’s best for you.”

“What is best for him. And what he wants is irrelevant.” I move to step past her, but she shifts, blocking my path.

“We could be good together, Dante.” Her hand comes up, fingers trailing down my lapel. “Think about it. The Vitale and Bellandi families united. The power we’d wield. The empire we could build.”

I look down at her hand on my chest. “Remove it.”

“Don’t be like that.” She presses closer, and I can see the calculation behind her eyes. The same look a predator gets when it thinks it’s cornered prey. “I know your reputation. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable. But everyone has needs. I could satisfy those needs. Give you everything you want.”

“You have no idea what I want.”

“Don’t I?” Her voice drops, attempting sultry but landing on rehearsed. “I’ve done my research. I know about your… preferences. The control you like to maintain. I can be whatever you need me to be.”

The presumption of it—the arrogance—makes something cold settle in my chest.

“Let me be very clear.” I take her wrist and remove her hand from my chest with enough force to make my point. “I don’t want you. I don’t want your family’s connections. I don’t want an alliance built on ambition and manipulation. And I certainly don’t want a wife who thinks she can mold herself into whatever she thinks I’ll fuck.”

Her smile falters. Good.

“You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice hardening. “My father—”

“Your father is a means to an end. Useful for now. But if you think I’ll tie myself to you to maintain that usefulness, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

Color rises in her cheeks—anger finally breaking through the practiced seduction. “You’ll regret this.”

“I doubt it.”

“You need me more than you know.” She steps back, composure cracking at the edges. “The other families talk. They question your judgment. Your legitimacy. A marriage to me would silence those doubts. Give you the respectability—”

“I don’t need respectability from people whose opinions I don’t value.” I straighten my cuffs, dismissing her. “And I certainly don’t need a wife who views marriage as a business transaction.”

“That’s what all marriages are in our world.” Her laugh is bitter. “Love is a liability. Sentiment gets people killed. You know that.”

“I know that settling for someone I despise is worse than being alone.”

The words land like a slap. I see it in the way her eyes flash, the way her perfectly manicured hands curl into fists.

“I could make your life very difficult, Dante.” The threat is barely veiled now. “My family has resources. Connections. Ways of making problems for people who refuse us.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” I take a step toward her, and she actually backs up. “I’ve rebuilt my family’s name from ashes. Survived scandals that would have destroyed lesser men. Carved out power in a world that wanted me to fail. Do you really think I’m afraid of a spoiled mafia princess whose biggest accomplishment is looking good at charity galas?”

Her face goes white with rage.

“You’re going to regret rejecting me,” she hisses. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Get in line.” I move past her, done with this conversation. “There are plenty of people who want to see me fail. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

I don’t look back as I walk out the front door.

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Alessia

Seven months earlier…

My father calls me into his study at ten in the morning, and I know something is wrong because he never wants to see me before noon.

He’s a man of habits—late breakfasts, later drinks, and a general disdain for anything that interrupts his own routine. So when Marta, the housekeeper, knocks on my door and tells me that “your father requests you, now,” I already know whatever’s coming isn’t good.

The hallway outside his study feels colder than usual. I can hear the low hum of his favorite jazz record playing behind the door, the one he puts on when he wants to seem calm. I hesitate for a heartbeat before I push it open.

He’s sitting behind his desk with a glass of whiskey in his hand, even though it’s barely past breakfast. The curtains are drawn, shutting out the daylight, and the air is thick with the smell of cigars and stale liquor. The ashtray beside him is already full.

“Sit down, Alessia.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just stares at the amber liquid in his glass like it holds the answers he’s been searching for his entire life.

I sit in the chair across from him and fold my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking because I already know this conversation is not going to be good. My father doesn’t call me into his study for good news.

“I’ve made an arrangement.” He still won’t look at me and that tells me more than his words do. “With the Moretti family. You’re getting married to Lorenzo Moretti, Don Emilio’s son.”

The words hit me and for a second I can’t process what he just said because surely, he didn’t just tell me he’s arranged my marriage without asking me. My stomach drops and my hands go cold but I keep my face neutral because showing fear around my father only makes situations worse.

“When?” The word comes out steadier than I feel.

“One month.” He finally looks at me and his eyes are tired and empty in a way that makes him look like a stranger. “The wedding is in one month.”

One month to prepare for marriage to a man I’ve never met, never even heard of beyond the Moretti name that everyone in Chicago knows means danger. I can feel panic trying to claw its way up my throat but I swallow it down because breaking down in front of my father will only make him angry.

“I don’t know him.” My voice is still steady but my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my wrists. “I’ve never even met him.”

“You’ll meet him before the wedding.” My father pours himself another drink and I watch the bottle shake slightly in his hand. “This is not a discussion, Alessia. This is already decided. Don Emilio has agreed to clear my debts and bring me deeper into the family business in exchange for the marriage.”

And there it is. The real reason he’s marrying me off to a stranger. Not because Lorenzo Moretti is a good match or because this will benefit me in any way. Because my father gambled away money he didn’t have and now he’s paying his debts with me instead of cash.

“I’m twenty,” I whisper. “I don’t want to get married to a stranger.”

“I know, my dear.” His words sound almost gentle, which makes them worse. “But there’s nothing else I can do.” He drains the glass and stares past me. “This is the world we live in, Alessia. You should be grateful I was able to arrange this instead of something worse.”

Something worse. Like there’s something worse than being sold to a man I’ve never met to pay off debts I didn’t create, debts from my father’s gambling problem that he’s never been able to control. I want to scream at him, but I know it won’t change anything. The deal is already made.

I leave his study and go to my room and sit on my bed staring at nothing. One month until I marry a stranger. One month until my life stops being mine and starts belonging to Lorenzo Moretti.

***

The wedding happens exactly one month later, in a church I’ve never seen before. The flowers smell expensive, like roses imported from a country I’ll never visit. The guests are all strangers—men in tailored suits, women dripping in diamonds. My father’s arm is locked around mine as he walks me down the aisle. His grip is so tight it feels like a warning. Don’t run.

At the altar stands Lorenzo Moretti.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly put together. Handsome, in a way that’s almost cruel. His dark hair slicked back, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. The kind of man who could make a room go quiet by walking into it.

If I didn’t know better, I might think he looks kind. But I do know better. His eyes are cold, controlled, studying me like he’s already memorized what he’s bought. When our gazes meet, something in my chest twists.

The ceremony passes in a haze. The priest’s voice echoes in the vaulted ceiling, but I barely hear him. I repeat the words I’m told to repeat. I nod when I’m supposed to.

My hands don’t stop trembling until Lorenzo takes them. His palms are warm, his touch firm. Possessive. He slides the ring onto my finger—it’s heavy, gleaming, too tight—and it feels less like jewelry and more like a lock clicking shut.

When he leans in to kiss me, his hand curls around the back of my neck, forcing me to stay still. His lips are soft, but his grip is hard. I can’t move even though every part of me wants to pull away.

The reception is endless. People congratulate us and Lorenzo keeps me glued to his side with his arm tight around my waist. Every time I try to move away or speak to someone his grip gets tighter. He introduces me as if I am his property. The way he clasps me makes me feel like his plaything.

I look at my father across the room, laughing, surrounded by men whose loyalty he’s just bought with me.

And I know, in that moment, that whatever debt he thought he was paying…

I’ll be the one who keeps paying it.

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• Medium-length series (5–6 books) where the stories connect through shared characters and ongoing tension between families or gangs
• Themed mini-series (around 5–6 books) built around one core idea — like revenge marriages, blood oaths, forbidden heirs, or mafia royalty

When it comes to epilogues, you prefer: *

• A glimpse into the couple’s future — seeing them happy a few months or years later
• An ending that hints at what’s next — featuring our main couple but focusing on setting up the sequel or the next main characters

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Matteo

Three years later…

The sound of something crashing downstairs pulls me out of sleep at six in the morning. I’m out of bed before I’m fully awake, hand reaching for the gun in my nightstand, but then I hear Nico’s laugh followed by Leo’s higher-pitched giggle and I remember that the only threat in this house is my three-year-old twins destroying the kitchen.

Alessia stirs beside me and opens one eye. “Your sons are awake.”

“They’re only my sons when they’re causing chaos.” I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt. “When they’re being angels, they’re yours.”

“They’re never angels.” She sits up and her hair is a mess from sleep and she’s wearing one of my old shirts and I still can’t believe sometimes that this is my life now. I have a wife, kids, and domesticity I never thought I’d have. “Go stop them before they burn the house down. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

I head downstairs and find both boys in the kitchen with Isabella, who looks like she regrets offering to make them breakfast. Nico has somehow gotten flour all over himself and the counter, and Leo is standing on a chair trying to reach the cabinet where we keep the cereal.

“Uncle Enzo lets us have chocolate cereal.” Nico announces when he sees me.

“Uncle Enzo doesn’t live here and doesn’t make the rules.” I lift Leo off the chair before he falls and breaks his neck. “And you’re covered in flour. What were you trying to make?”

“Pancakes.” Nico grins at me with zero remorse. “Zia Bella said we could help but then I dropped the flour.”

“I can see that.” I look at Isabella who’s trying not to laugh. “Thank you for this.”

“They’re your children.” She’s already wiping down the counter. “You deal with them while I salvage breakfast.”

I get both boys cleaned up and seated at the table just as Alessia comes downstairs looking more awake. She kisses the top of each boy’s head before coming over to kiss me, and I can taste toothpaste on her lips.

“Did they destroy anything important?” She asks quietly.

“Just Isabella’s patience.” I pour her coffee and hand it to her. “And about five pounds of flour.”

Nico is talking at full speed about something that happened at preschool yesterday, and Leo is trying to interrupt with his own story, and the noise level is already higher than I’m equipped to handle before seven AM. But Alessia just sits down and listens to both of them like she can actually follow what they’re saying, and eventually they calm down enough to eat the pancakes Isabella puts in front of them.

“Papà, can we go to the park today?” Nico asks with his mouth full.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Alessia corrects automatically. “And maybe. Your father has work this morning.”

“I can clear the afternoon.” I’m already mentally rearranging meetings because the truth is I’ll cancel anything to spend time with them. Being a father is still strange to me after three years. Still something I’m figuring out. But I know I don’t want to be the kind of father mine was, always working, always busy, always putting business before family. “We’ll go after lunch.”

Both boys cheer loud enough to make me wince, and Alessia is smiling at me over her coffee cup with that look she gets when I do something she approves of. After three years of marriage, I can read every expression on her face, know what she’s thinking before she says it.

My phone buzzes with a text from Enzo asking about a shipment coming in tonight, and I answer it quickly before putting the phone away. Work can wait until after breakfast. Until after I’ve spent time with my family doing normal things that have nothing to do with territory or violence or any of the business that used to consume my entire life.

***

Alessia

I watch Matteo push Nico on the swing and Leo is already running toward the slide for the fifth time, and I can’t stop smiling because this is my life now. This is what I chose when I said yes three years ago when I didn’t even know I was already pregnant.

Some days I still can’t believe it’s real. That I went from four months of hell with Lorenzo to this. To a husband who actually loves me. To two beautiful boys who have Matteo’s eyes and my stubbornness and enough energy to power the entire city.

“Higher, Papà!” Nico shouts and Matteo pushes him higher despite my automatic worry that he’s going to fly off and crack his head open.

But Matteo is careful even when he’s playing rough. Always has been with them since the day they were born two minutes apart and screaming loud enough to be heard down the hospital hallway. I watched him hold them for the first time and saw him realize that these two tiny humans were his responsibility now and he’d kill anyone who tried to hurt them.

Being a mother terrified me at first. But Matteo made sure I had choices about everything. Made sure the whole experience was mine instead of something being done to me.

And then the twins arrived and I fell in love with them so fast it scared me.

“Mamma, watch!” Leo yells from the top of the slide before coming down way too fast.

I watch him and clap when he reaches the bottom, and he runs back around to do it again. They have so much energy and I’m tired just watching them, but it’s a good tired.

I walk over to where Matteo is now crouched in the sandbox helping both boys build what looks like it’s supposed to be a castle but mostly looks like a pile of sand. He glances up when I sit down next to him and reaches over to squeeze my hand briefly.

“Having fun?” I ask.

“More than I thought I would.” He admits quietly while the boys are distracted. “I never saw myself doing this. Having kids or playing in sandboxes. But it’s good.”

“Yeah.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “It is.”

Nico dumps a bucket of sand on Leo’s head and Leo retaliates by throwing sand back and suddenly they’re both yelling and covered in sand. Matteo separates them while I try not to laugh because they’re both filthy and we’re going to have to hose them down before letting them back in the house.

“No throwing sand.” Matteo’s voice carries authority even with two three-year-olds. “You know the rules.”

“But he started it!” Nico protests.

“I don’t care who started it. I’m ending it.” Matteo stands and offers me his hand to pull me up. “Come on. We’re going home before someone loses an eye.”

Both boys complain but they follow us out of the sandbox, and Matteo carries Leo while I hold Nico’s hand because he’s the flight risk who’ll take off running if we’re not paying attention.

The walk home is only ten minutes but it feels longer with two sandy, tired children. By the time we get back to the estate they’re both cranky from hunger and exhaustion.

“Bath time.” I announce and both of them groan like I’ve suggested torture instead of getting the sand out of their hair.

Matteo helps me get them upstairs and into the bath, and we end up with water all over the bathroom floor because of course we do. But eventually they’re clean and dressed and calm enough to eat dinner.

After dinner we put them to bed and I read them the same story I’ve read fifty times while Matteo sits in the chair by the window checking his phone. By the time I finish, both boys are asleep with Nico sprawled across his bed and Leo curled up with his stuffed lion.

“They’re out.” I whisper to Matteo and we slip out of the room quietly.

We end up in our own room and I’m exhausted but happy, and Matteo pulls me against him on the bed. His hand finds mine automatically and our fingers lace together like they always do.

“Thank you.” He says it quietly against my hair.

“For what?”

“For this. For choosing me and staying and building this life.” His arm tightens around me. “I know it’s not always easy being married to me. But you make it work. You make everything work.”

“We make it work.” I correct and turn to look at his face. “Together, that’s how this works.”

He kisses me and it’s gentle and familiar and perfect. After three years I know exactly how he kisses when he’s tired, when he’s stressed, when he’s happy. Right now he’s content and that makes me content too.

“I love you.” We’re here and safe and our boys are asleep down the hall and this is my life now.

“I love you too.” He pulls me closer and I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady under my ear.

This is what happiness looks like. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.

And I wouldn’t change any of it.

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Isabelle

Shock and confusion battled within me as I sat on a bench outside the library. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t ever be one of those girls crying in public over a man, and yet, here I was.

My vision blurred as hot tears filled my eyes. I still hadn’t made sense of the text I had just received from my now-ex boyfriend, Mark.

I knew I couldn’t keep sitting there so, I decided to make my way to my dorm.

I trudged across campus, my eyes fixed on the pavement, trying to process the sting of Mark’s text message.

It’s over, the text simply read. Two words that had shattered my world. They were followed by his claims that we had grown apart. We had been together for two years, and I thought our love was unbreakable. I didn’t think we had grown apart, but it was clear he didn’t feel the same.

As I tried to walk, my legs felt shaky. Before I could get far, someone enveloped me in a warm hug. It was my best friend, Sarah. I was slightly confused to see her as she didn’t attend UCLA, but I guessed she was on her way to the gym, which was near my campus.

“What’s the matter?” She asked, and without saying a single word, I handed her my phone. I didn’t talk because I was afraid that I would dissolve into a sobbing mess.

“I’m so sorry, Izzy,” she whispered. “What a jerk! And to leave you with a text… a coward too!”

I collapsed onto the bench Sarah had led me to, tears streaming down my face. She handed me a tissue and sat beside me.

“We’re going to get through this together,” she promised. “And then, we’re going to confront Mark. He can’t just break up with you over text!”

I felt a wave of panic wash over me at her words. Maybe it was cowardly, but I didn’t have the strength to face him. I wanted to keep my last bit of pride intact by not crying in front of him and begging him to come back to me.

“I can’t… I don’t want to see him!” I said, and she paused at my words.

“Okay, you don’t have to. We’ll just take it one step at a time. You’re too good for him anyway.” She declared.

I nodded. Sarah was right; I deserved better.

With Sarah’s support, I began to heal. We spent hours talking, laughing, and crying together. She spent the next few weeks coming over to my campus to be with me, she was my rock.

After a while, although I didn’t feel completely healed, the wound from the break-up began to feel less painful. I knew that with time, I would get over him.

However, one evening, several months after the breakup, I met up with Sarah and she seemed strange. She had been fidgeting and it was obvious that she was nervous.

“What’s the matter? You keep fidgeting,” I finally said. She sighed heavily, and her reaction made me sit up.

“Izzy, I’ve been meaning to ask you… how would you feel if I went out with Mark?” Her words hit me like a hard knock. I stared at her in disbelief.

At first, I thought I’d misheard her. “What? You and Mark?” I tried to sound casual, but my mind was racing.

Sarah nodded, her eyes searching mine for a reaction. “I know it’s weird, but we bumped into each other the other night and we started for hours and I think really like him, Izzy. But I value our friendship too much to lie to you or hurt you. I wanted to be upfront with you.”

I felt a sting of hurt and confusion, but I pushed it aside. I didn’t want to lose my best friend over this. “It’s okay, Sarah. Really. I’m over him. You two would be great together.”

Sarah’s face lit up with a smile. “Thanks, Izzy. That means a lot to me.”

But as we hugged and chatted, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of betrayal. How had that happened? She, of all people, knew how much Mark had hurt me.

I concealed my true feelings, not wanting to ruin our friendship, but I couldn’t help but feel sadness. However, she was my best friend, and I believed our friendship was stronger than this. It had to be.

I wanted her to be happy, and if she thought that she would be happy with Mark, then I knew I would have to accept it.

We sat side by side sipping coffee and gossiping, we were about to graduate soon and we were all looking forward to the future.

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Even a character, a scene, or anything that you enjoyed.

Is there one (or more) character(s) in this book that you would like to read more about in a sequel?

It could be a character from the book. You could say no if there isn't any.

Which story idea do you prefer? *

• A mafia boss rescues a woman from a crash meant to kill her. Exploiting her amnesia, he claims she is his wife to protect her from human traffickers. As he falls in love, she starts to remember his dark past.
• A woman infiltrates a mafia family to avenge her fiancé's death but falls for the mafia boss she meant to destroy. As she prepares her revenge, she discovers she's pregnant with his child.
• A mafia boss and a police detective must team up to take down a common enemy, sparking a tense love/hate relationship. Things get even more complicated when he discovers she's the daughter of a man his father killed, leading to a dangerous and tangled romance.

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Vincenzo

One year later

As I walked into the nursery, I couldn’t help but smile at the sight before me. My beautiful wife, Isabelle, was sitting on the floor, surrounded by toys and giggling with our adorable baby boy, Leonardo.

He was crawling around, exploring every nook and cranny, and his infectious laughter filled the room.

I joined them on the floor, and we spent the next hour playing with Leo, watching him discover new things, and enjoying every moment of it. At one point, Isabelle looked up at me, her eyes shining with happiness, and I knew exactly what she was thinking because it was the same thing I was.

I had done what I once thought was impossible. I had built a happy family, the complete opposite of what I had growing up.

As we sat there, surrounded by the chaos of toys and baby books, I turned to Isabelle and said, “You know, I never thought I could be this happy.”

Isabelle smiled, her face radiant with joy. “I know exactly what you mean,” she replied. “This is exactly what we wanted, isn’t it?”

I nodded, feeling grateful for the life we had built together. “Perfect,” I whispered, taking her hand in mine.

Leo, sensing that our attention wasn’t fully on him anymore, crawled over to us and snuggled into our arms. We sat there, basking in the happiness that filled our home.

I treasured these moments even more because of the complex matters I had to face outside our home. It didn’t matter how busy we were, we always made time to be together as a family.

I spent the whole day at home, and we trailed Leo as he crawled through the garden, giggling with every move. He was a bright, curious child, and he stopped every few moments to stare at butterflies and flowers.

I chuckled at the way his nose wrinkled when a butterfly landed on his forehead.

We had both cleared our schedules to stay home all day.

When evening came and all that crawling around had finally made our son tired, we put him to bed before going to our rooms.

I held Isabelle, my wife and the mother of my son, in my arms. I had a family, a home filled with more love than I ever thought possible. My heart was full.

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Virgilio

15 years earlier

Talent show, my ass.

I glare at a schoolmate as he approaches me with a sheet and pen, and then backpaddles.

I slam my locker door with ferocity. I hate this school. I hate the noise right now. I hate the buzz. And I fucking hate that one person in the distance laughing so fucking loud like life is indeed a bed of roses.

Zoe Gray.

Just a few days after she asked me to be her model, and I’m still wondering why the fuck I ever agreed to that. For the money, no doubt, but her vanilla personality makes me wanna puke.

I sneer at her with narrowed eyes, standing at the entrance of a corridor, surrounded by a bunch of equally annoying-looking girls hankering for morning gossip—her group of friends.

The school bustling with life and students hurrying through the hallways, their laughter and chatter filling the air, do nothing to make my gaze falter.

If I’m going to be working with her, I need to make sure she understands some things. I start towards her, tsking at the walls adorned with colorful posters announcing the upcoming talent show.

The closer I get, the louder her stringy laughter rings out like blaring music. She’s the center of attention, her radiant smile and infectious joy drawing everyone in. She’s dressed in a vibrant outfit of blue jeans and a bright yellow sweater that matches her lively personality, every bit the life of the party.

My irritation skyrockets as I watch her laugh, her ocean-blue eyes glinting with a bubbly emotion that feels mocking.

Life is tough.

But how would she know this when she has fucking two-hundred-and-fifty dollars lying around to throw into something as stupid as a fashion competition?

“Zoe,” my tone is sharp, and her head snaps toward me. She keeps her smile unwavering even as she notices my grim expression. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I sneer at her friends, and they exchange curious glances. I don’t talk to any of them. I don’t talk to anyone. Perhaps this might be the reason they’re so curious.

“Sure, Virgilio.” Zoe shrugs and trails after me as I lead her to the side, a little away from the gnawing buzz.

I crowd her, but she doesn’t seem intimidated by my height or unhinged by the sourness of my expression.

“Do you ever stop smiling?” I snick. “Do you ever have a single serious thought in your head?”

She snorts, then does the annoying thing of laughing louder. “Why do you care?”.

I search her eyes and, very quickly, something somber flickers in her eyes.

“Because it’s infuriating,” I feel affronted. I’m struggling to get away from my father so I’m selling some of his drugs to make money, but she, like most of these kids, has been handed life on gold plates. I hate that she is rubbing it in. “You walk around here acting like everything is perfect. Like you don’t have a single problem in the world. It’s superficial and immature. You have no idea how tough life really is.”

Her eyes meet mine, her gaze unwavering. She holds still for a quick second, the air swirling around us, fuming with unspoken confrontations.

She chuckles, and her face melts back into her usual soft expression. “Thank you.” She smiles even brighter than before.

I blink at her words. “What?” Her response and reaction take me aback.

She shrugs, “What did you expect to hear?” She scoffs. “It was nice chatting with you. I should go now.” She sighs, then spins and heads back to her cluster of friends.

I tsk, folding my fists.

Perhaps I do not hate her.

Perhaps I’m jealous.

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Was there a part that bored or that you didn't really like in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything. You could say no if nothing bothered you.

Which was the part you liked most in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything that you enjoyed.

Is there one (or more) character(s) in this book that you would like to read more about in a sequel?

It could be a character from the book. You could say no if there isn't any.

Which story idea do you prefer? *

• A mafia boss rescues a woman from a crash meant to kill her. Exploiting her amnesia, he claims she is his wife to protect her from human traffickers. As he falls in love, she starts to remember his dark past.
• A woman infiltrates a mafia family to avenge her fiancé's death but falls for the mafia boss she meant to destroy. As she prepares her revenge, she discovers she's pregnant with his child.
• A mafia boss and a police detective must team up to take down a common enemy, sparking a tense love/hate relationship. Things get even more complicated when he discovers she's the daughter of a man his father killed, leading to a dangerous and tangled romance.

How would you describe your ideal book boyfriend?

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Audry

I lay luxuriously on the beach bed, enjoying the cool breeze coming off the Pacific Ocean as the sun set. Marco had surprised me with an impromptu picnic – he called it that – giving me just enough time to grab my bikini before we headed out.

There was nobody else about, just us, some seagulls and a few trees, leaning curiously towards us in the breeze to see what leftovers we had. It had been a rather romantic day. We didn’t have a lot of those with a clan to run on his end, and cons to plan on mine. I was quite relieved when I realized that neither Marco nor his family was going to oblige me to join the family business. They were quite content for me to do as I pleased.

“If you want a role in the family, well, that’s a process. We trust you but that doesn’t mean everyone does,” his mother told me.

“Not after what I did.” I said sadly.

“No, they’re just a distrustful bunch. But considering everything you’ve done for our security and the new business you’ve brought in, let me tell you, they’re inclined to accept you,” she whispered confidentially.

“As long as I prove myself loyal.”

“Yes.”

I took a breath and nodded determinedly. “Okay, challenge accepted.”

As a result of that promise, I’d been doing my best to discover ways they could up their game businesswise including setting up an automatic payment system so that no one had to go around collecting protection money anymore. Of course, no one wanted to be made redundant so I suggested reassigning those guys to a boxing gym in the poorer neighborhoods, where they could recruit distributors loyal only to the Cassio family and find out what the word on the street was before it became a problem.

“You’d have seen me coming a lot sooner than you did if you had had an underground network of informants.” I said with a shrug. “Just saying.”

Marco’s face was inscrutable. “What makes you think I don’t?”

“I think you rely a lot on technology for surveillance with George and his assistants, but for some things you need boots on the ground. Now, if your goons are not busy terrorizing businessmen-”

“They don’t do that, but continue.”

“They could be building a trade, helping in the community, and advancing themselves. Your goal should be everyone has a chance to be better than what they started as, right?”

He stared at me in stupefaction. “Is that your goal? To be better than where you started.”

I blinked a few times, totally caught out. “Okay if I’m keeping it 100, I love the job I do. It takes smarts and I’m not ashamed of it. But what’s my end game?”

He shrugged at me, “Do tell.”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ve been that kid on the street, and I know that giving them purpose outside of knocking people’s heads together will breed loyalty like you’ve never seen.”

“I agree. And the boxing gym is a very good idea. But I think instead of joining one, we could start a few in the poorer neighborhoods. Teach the kids how to defend themselves, while doing a low-key recruitment exercise. So thank you for that idea.” He pulled me to him and kissed my chin. Then he smiled. “We make a good team.”

I smiled back. “Yes, we do.”

I smiled with my eyes closed as I thought back to that conversation.

“Why are you smiling?” Marco asked from his own beach bed.

I opened my eyes and turned my head to look at him. “Nothing really. I’m just glad to be here. This was a good idea.”

He grinned at me. “I did promise to give you a soft life.”

“You did.” I reached out my hand and he took it. “And you’ve done an excellent job congratulations.”

He gave us a praised laugh and sat up. “Well, um I have one more thing up my sleeve, if you’re up to it.”

I raised both my eyebrows and sat up as well. “I’m always up for a little adventure. What you got?”

He got to his feet and bent to take something from the basket. I sat up watching him as curiously as a squirrel. His hand emerged from the basket, clutching something that fit in his palm. I waited on tenterhooks to see what it was. Another plan to steal a rare jewel maybe? I couldn’t really see that happening on this beach.

Then he went down on one knee and my mind shut down. Literally, there was a blue screen flashing error 404, no thoughts – just shock.

I watched him open the box in his hand from another plane of existence. He removed a ring and my eyes widened. It was a plain white gold band, embedded with an emerald and opal and a diamond. My mouth dropped open, but my throat was closed, and I didn’t remember what words were.

“From the moment we met,” he began, “my life has been a whirlwind of chaos, danger, and excitement. But through it all, you grew to be my constant, my partner, my love.” He was staring into my eyes, and it was like staring into the sun. “I can’t imagine my life without you, and I don’t want to. Audry, will you marry me?”

I don’t know if I was crying, but my vision was blurry. I felt as if I was standing on the edge of a cliff and about to jump off it. Even more remarkable, I wanted to jump off it. I cleared my throat trying to remember how to make sounds. “Yes Marco,” I couldn’t quite stop the trembling in my voice. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He took my hand in his – it looked so small compared – and gently slipped the ring on. It fit perfectly, I could hardly believe it.

“God this is so trippy.” I said with wonder, my eyes on my ring. My engagement ring. “Somebody pinch me.”

He laughed. “I won’t pinch you, but can I kiss you?”

“Definitely,” I put my hands around his neck and pulled him to me. Our lips met in what was supposed to be a perfunctory little kiss, an acknowledgement of our new status, new commitment. But it escalated it into a mauling of each other’s mouths – just uncivilized licking and sucking and biting, me trying to stick my tongue right down his throat. Eventually we let go of each other, maybe even exchanged some sheepish looks and grins.

We both resumed sunbathing, on our respective sunbeds – or rather watching the sun go down over the water. It was a beautiful sight, so apt. Marco turned to me with a grin. “So tell me, missus Cassio-to-be, how do you see this going?”

“Well now that you mention it, I’ve been thinking about going to Las Vegas.”

He gave me a quizzical glance, “You wanna elope?”

“No! Don’t be silly. Your mother would put a hit out on us.”

He chuckled. “True.”

“What I want is to go and find my brother. He needs to know what happened with me and James, and I need to see him.”

“Huh.” Marco said looking thoughtful, “You know, now that you say that, there just might be the perfect job for us down in Las Vegas. Title fight. We could clean up.”

“I like how you think,” I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. “Let’s do this.”

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