Chapter 18
18
LUCIANO POV
Dominic’s hand trembles slightly as he lifts the crystal decanter—an unprecedented show of vulnerability from Chicago’s most feared Don. The subtle movement sends ripples through the formal dining room, where faces I’ve known for years watch with varying degrees of anticipation: Enzo’s masked curiosity, Marco’s watchful assessment, and Aurora—my Aurora—her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Family,” Dominic begins, his voice rough with emotion, “means standing together through fire. It means protecting our own, even when—” He breaks off, meeting my eyes across the polished mahogany, and I see the ghost of that night in his gaze—the gunshot, Aurora’s scream, blood on pristine sheets. “Even when pride and anger blind us to what matters most.”
Aurora’s hand finds mine beneath the table, her fingers warm and steady against my palm. The simple touch anchors me as Dominic continues, his words carrying the weight of weeks of guilt and revelation. The chandelier light catches in his tumbler, sending amber shadows dancing across the imported wallpaper as he searches for words.
“Luciano.” My name carries years of brotherhood, betrayal, and redemption. “Years ago, you stepped in front of a bullet meant for me without hesitation. And now, after taking one from me—” his voice catches slightly, “—after giving your kidney to our sister, you still stand beside us with unwavering loyalty. That’s not the act of a consigliere. That’s the act of family.”
“Here, here,” Enzo raises his glass, his usual smirk softened by genuine warmth. The ice in his tumbler clinks musically, a counterpoint to the emotional tension.
Marco leans forward, trademark intensity lightening. “Though I have to say, fratello , getting shot was a bit dramatic. A simple ‘I love your sister’ would have sufficed.” His lips twitch. “Maybe a nice card. Some flowers.”
“Since when do you know anything about romance?” Enzo counters, earning a dinner roll thrown with impressive accuracy.
“Children,” Dominic warns, but I catch the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. The familiar bickering seems to lighten the air itself, making it easier to breathe.
“ Papá ?” Luca’s small voice cuts through the moment, and my chest tightens at the hope in his tone. His dark curls—so like mine—are slightly mussed from where he’s been fidgeting with excitement all evening. “Does this mean we’re staying? For real?”
The room stills as Dominic crouches beside my son’s chair. The Don of the Chicago underworld, brought to his knees by a six-year-old’s innocent question. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“Yes, piccolo .” Dominic’s voice carries a gentleness I’ve rarely heard. “You and your father are Salvatores now. If you’ll have us as your family.”
Luca’s face lights up with pure joy. “Even Zio Marco? Even though he’s grumpy?”
“I’m not grumpy,” Marco protests, but his eyes dance with barely suppressed laughter. “I’m stoic. There’s a difference.”
“There really isn’t,” Aurora teases, the chandelier light catching the mischief in her eyes. Her hand squeezes mine under the table, a silent celebration.
The tension that’s haunted this room since that night in the safe house dissipates with each shared laugh, each casual touch, each moment of acceptance. I watch them—my son, my love, our newfound family—and something shifts in my chest. The weight I’ve carried since Maria’s death feels lighter somehow, transformed by the warmth of this moment and the promise it holds.
Dominic raises his glass once more. “To family,” he declares, voice steady now. “Both blood and chosen.”
“To family,” we echo, crystal clinking like bells of absolution.
As the evening mellows, conversation flows easier than the wine. The formal dining room feels warmer now, transformed by laughter and shared stories. Candlelight dances across the antique silver, casting soft shadows that seem to blur the lines between past and present, between old wounds and new beginnings.
“And that’s when your father,” Enzo gestures dramatically, nearly knocking over his wine glass in his enthusiasm, “decided to take on three Russians with nothing but a fountain pen.” His eyes sparkle with mischief as Luca leans forward, completely entranced.
“It was one Russian,” I correct, fighting a smile as I remember that night. “And he was already unconscious.”
“Minor details.” Enzo waves his hand dismissively. “You’re missing the artistic vision here, fratello .”
Aurora’s laugh rings clear across the table, the sound making my heart stutter in my chest. “Let me guess—in your version, the pen was actually a sword?”
“Well, now that you mention it...” Enzo strokes his chin thoughtfully. “It was a very special pen. Possibly enchanted. Definitely platinum.”
“Christ,” Marco mutters into his wine glass. “This is why we don’t let him tell bedtime stories. Last time, he convinced my nephew that pigeons are actually government spies.”
“They could be!” Enzo defends, reaching for the bread basket. “Have you ever seen a baby pigeon? Exactly. Suspicious.”
Luca bounces in his seat, his dessert fork abandoned in his excitement. “Tell another one! Did Papá really fight a bear?”
“Absolutely not,” I say firmly, though warmth spreads through my chest at his obvious hero-worship.
“It was more of a large dog,” Enzo stage-whispers, winking at my son. “Very fierce. Possibly part wolf.”
“It was a chihuahua,” Dominic deadpans from the head of the table, surprising us all. “And your father screamed like a girl. The great Luciano Vitale, brought low by six pounds of pure fury.”
“That’s slander,” I protest, but I can’t help laughing at Luca’s delighted giggle. “The dog was clearly rabid.”
“It was wearing a pink bow,” Dominic counters, his eyes twinkling. “And a sweater with butterflies.”
Later, we migrate to the private wing, where formality dissolves into comfortable intimacy. The space feels different tonight—warmer somehow, as if the walls themselves have absorbed the evening’s joy. Soft lamplight creates pools of amber warmth, and the leather sofas still hold traces of Dominic’s imported cigars mixed with Aurora’s jasmine perfume.
Luca curls into Aurora’s lap on the plush sofa, fighting sleep despite heavy eyelids. His small fingers play with the pendant at her throat—her Mamma’s necklace, now a bridge between past and future. The sight makes my chest tight with emotions I can’t quite name.
“One more story?” he pleads, voice thick with approaching dreams. “The one about the brave knight?”
“Tomorrow, piccolo .” Aurora strokes his hair, her movements so natural it makes my heart ache. She starts humming softly—some half-remembered lullaby that sounds like peace and promises and home.
“But I’m not even tired,” he protests, even as his eyes flutter closed.
I watch them from the doorway, memorizing every detail: the way the firelight catches Aurora’s hair, turning it to liquid gold; how Luca’s small hand curls trustingly around her necklace; the absolute rightness of them together.
“He’s out,” she whispers after a few minutes, careful not to disturb his peaceful breathing. Her eyes meet mine across the room, full of such tenderness it steals my breath. “He fought it hard though.”
“Like father, like son,” I say softly, crossing to them. “Stubborn runs in the family.”
“Good thing I have practice handling stubborn Vitale men.” Her smile turns teasing, though her hand never stops its gentle motion through Luca’s hair.
After carrying Luca to his room and tucking him in with whispered goodnights, we make our way to our bedroom. The familiar scent of Aurora’s perfume mingles with leather and gunmetal—my weapons safe tucked discretely in the corner, her silk robe draped over a chair. These small signs of our lives intertwined still catch me off guard sometimes, in the best possible way.
Aurora moves to the window, moonlight silvering her hair as she looks out over the estate grounds. I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and breathing in the scent of her—jasmine and wine and home.
“What are you thinking about?” I murmur against her hair, feeling the way she melts back against me.
“How different everything is now,” she says softly, her hands covering mine where they rest on her stomach. “A few months ago, I thought I’d never have this. Freedom. Family. You.”
I tighten my hold, remembering how close we came to losing it all. “I never thought I’d have it either. After Maria...” I press a kiss to her temple. “I was just surviving. Going through the motions.”
She turns in my arms, reaching up to trace the scar on my jaw—a reminder of the night everything changed. “And now?”
“Now?” I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Now I remember what it means to truly live.”
Her smile is soft in the darkness as she rises on her toes to kiss me. It’s gentle at first, but quickly deepens with all the emotion of the evening—gratitude, joy, love, desire. When we break apart, her eyes are bright with tears and something that looks like forever.
“I love you,” she whispers against my lips. “You and Luca—you’re my everything.”
Instead of answering, I lift her into my arms, carrying her to our bed. She laughs softly, the sound full of joy and promise. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new battles to fight, new moments to cherish. But tonight, in this room that smells of perfume and moonlight, there is only us—and the certainty that we’ve finally, truly, come home.