Savage Vows (Titans: Moretti Mafia #2)

Epilogue

Matteo

I lean against the doorjamb of our bedroom, arms crossed, watching as Alessia emerges from her closet. My breath catches, the sight of her enough to knock me off balance, even after weeks of waking up to her every morning.

She’s stunning in a pale sheath dress. The fabric clings to her body in all the right ways. The soft golden light from the bedside lamp catches the subtle shimmer in the material, making her look like she’s glowing. Or maybe that’s just her—my wife, my beautiful, infuriating, perfect wife.

She pauses to adjust the thin strap on her shoulder, the small movement highlighting the elegant curve of her neck. I let my gaze linger, taking in every detail of her.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go?” I ask as I trail my gaze down her figure. She stops midway across the room, her eyebrows knitted together, her head tilted to one side in confusion.

“What do you mean?” she asks, smoothing her hands down the dress, checking for wrinkles or some imagined flaw.

I push off the doorjamb and walk toward her, slow and deliberate. “I mean…” Dropping my voice, I say, “You look so damn sexy that if we don’t leave right now, I’m not letting you out of this house.”

Her lips part slightly, a flush rising to her cheeks. “Matteo…” she starts, but I close the distance between us, slipping an arm around her waist to pull her close. Her hands instinctively press against my chest, a futile attempt to create space between us.

“We’re already running late,” she protests, but her voice is soft, breathy.

When it comes to her, I’m insatiable. And her passions match mine. “They can wait.” I slide my hand onto her belly, gently against the flat expanse. “I know it’s early, but the fact you’re carrying our child…” Fuck . It does something to me. “I couldn’t be more filled with joy.” New life. New beginnings. New hope. I only wish my father had lived to see his first grandchild.

With a soft, maternal-like smile, she covers my hand with hers.

I still can’t believe it. We made love without protection one time. Our wedding day.

The memory of that encounter floods back, a mix of passion, desperation, and the blossoming love I’d be terrified to acknowledge. “It was meant to be,” I say simply. “And we’re in agreement? If it’s a boy…”

“Raffaele,” she finishes softly. “There’s nothing more fitting.”

I press my forehead to hers, cupping her face as I kiss her deeply. “I couldn’t love you more, Alessia.” Though I try, every day. “Are you ready to tell my family?”

She shakes her head. “If it’s okay, I want to keep it a secret. Just to be sure. In case…” Her breath catches.

“Everything will be fine,” I promise her. And I’ll be with her every step of the way.

“I think it’s still going to be a while before I show,” she murmurs, her fingers grazing over my hand. “So we have time.”

I brush my thumb over her cheek. “This is the start of something incredible. You’re going to be an amazing mom.”

“And you’ll be a great father.”

I vow I will be, involved like my father had been. There’s a legacy to pass on. Family first.

We arrive at my mother’s house, right after Dario does. Nico and Bella are already there.

Within moments, we’re swept into hugs and offered wine. I accept, but Alessia declines.

While Nico and Dario talk, Gina and Bella exchange knowing glances. My mother ushers Alessia into the dining room and tells her to have a seat, refusing to let her help with anything.

So much for keeping secrets, at least from the ladies.

Sunday dinner feels different without my father sitting at the head of the table, his calm authority anchoring us all. The space isn’t somber—it never could be with my mother bustling about, making sure everyone has second and third helpings—but there’s an undercurrent of grief wrapped around our exchanges.

Alessia is seated next to me, and she laughs as Nico regales her with a story that might be an exaggeration—or outright fiction.

Across the table, Dario groans, shaking his head at Nico’s antics. “You’re so full of shit, Nico. No way that happened.”

“It did!” Nico protests, raising a hand as if swearing an oath. “You can ask Matteo. He was there.”

Alessia’s curious eyes turn to me, sparkling with amusement. “Well? Is it true?”

I shrug, biting back a grin. “Parts of it.”

The table erupts in laughter, and Alessia leans closer, her hand brushing my thigh under the table. It’s a small gesture, but it steadies me, reminding me of what’s important.

Gina balances a platter of roasted vegetables in one hand and a serving spoon in the other. “I swear, you boys will bicker until the end of time. Dario, pass this down, will you?”

“Yes, Mama,” Dario responds, doing as she says.

Nico uses the opportunity to swipe another roll from the breadbasket. “We’re not bickering. We’re bonding.”

“You call that bonding?” Dario quips, sitting back down. “I call it you trying to bury people in bullshit.”

Though she sighs, there’s fondness in our mother’s expression. “I don’t know what to do with all of you troublemakers.” She glances at Alessia, her tone softening. “Thank God for you, cara. I hope you can keep this one in line.”

Alessia grins, her cheeks flushing faintly. “I think I’m managing.”

“She’s doing more than managing,” I interject, my voice firm but warm. “She’s thriving.”

Alessia squeezes my hand under the table, a silent thank you for my words.

The front door creaks open, followed by the heavy sound of boots on the tile. A moment later, Dante appears in the doorway, his broad shoulders taking up most of the frame. He’s dressed in his usual dark colors, his tie slightly loosened, his jaw set like stone.

As always, he’s late.

As always, my mother welcomes him with a smile and offers her cheek for a kiss.

He drops into the vacant seat, his movements economical and controlled, and I don’t miss the tension in his posture or the tight line of his mouth.

The room quiets slightly, everyone sensing it. Dante rarely brings his work to the table, but something’s weighing on him tonight.

“Wine?” Dario offers, raising the bottle of chianti.

Dante shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Our mother studies him, her brow furrowing, but she doesn’t press. Instead she directs the conversation elsewhere, asking Nico and Bella about a gala her foundation recently hosted. The hum of conversation resumes, but my attention lingers on Dante.

He’s here, but his mind isn’t. And I’m going to find out why.

After dinner, Mother offers coffee, and the family begins clearing plates and moving around the room.

Cup in hand, I ask everyone to excuse me and the other gentlemen.

Alessia looks at me, and I squeeze her hand gently. “I’ll explain later, in the car.”

Since she gave me a second chance, I’ve been talking to her more and more about Mafia business. Though she doesn’t always offer advice, the fact she listens helps unload my stress. And when she does speak, her counsel is wise.

I rise, signaling Dario and Nico to follow me. “Dante,” I say quietly as I pass him. “Let’s go.”

The four of us file into my father’s old office, the scent of leather and wood still familiar, still grounding. I take the chair behind the desk—my desk now—and lean back, studying my brothers. Dario stands by the bookshelf, arms crossed. Nico sits in the chair across from me, one leg draped casually over the other. Dante doesn’t sit. He paces; tension crawls through me.

“Talk to me,” I say, my tone steady but firm.

Dante stops pacing and pulls a photograph from his jacket pocket. He tosses it onto the desk, the glossy paper sliding to a halt in front of me. It’s a grainy image, but the subject is unmistakable: Valentina Russo, stepping out of a building I don’t recognize. Her head is tilted downward, a scarf obscuring part of her face, but it’s her. No question.

“Where was this taken?” I ask, picking up the photo.

“Midtown,” Dante says.

Houston.

Our territory.

A place she shouldn’t be.

Nico leans forward, studying the image. “She’s bold; I’ll give her that.”

“She’s a threat,” Dante snaps. “And she’s making moves right under our noses. Something has to be done.”

Dario shifts, his expression darkening. “We need to be careful. If we misstep?—”

“There’s no room for careful,” Dante interrupts, his voice rising slightly. “Not this time.”

I meet his gaze, holding it steady. “And what do you suggest?”

Dante’s jaw tightens. “I suggest we stop waiting for the Russos to screw up. I suggest we take the fight to them.”

I sit back, letting his words settle. “And?”

He pivots and strides to the door. As he leaves, he throws a few words over his shoulder. “And I’m going to be the one to do it.”