Epilogue
BECCA
Fifteen Years Later
T he roses are in full bloom, along with the peonies and gardenias. They line the backyard like a beautiful botanical garden. A little oasis in the middle of a bullet-ridden jungle. Gianni says it smells like a funeral parlor, but I think they mean as much to him as they do to me.
A nod to both our mothers.
Death and rebirth.
I clip a few of each and tuck them in the basket on my arm just as a wave of water drenches my entire back. Turning, I find my middle child standing in the center of the pool, wide-eyed and panicked. “Renzo, what did I say about cannonballs?”
“Uh, not to do them?”
“Why not?”
“Uh, because last time I landed on Nero’s head?”
“Right, and what did you just do?”
He narrows those all too familiar dark eyes. “I feel like this is a trick question.”
I bite my lip. The kid is every inch his father.
While our oldest son, Nero, is the calm, cool, studious one; Renzo is Gianni in miniature form—smooth talking, unruly, and determined to spend the rest of his life in detention.
Gianni claims instead of prom king he’s probably going to get voted “most likely to rob a bank.”
He’s not wrong.
“He did a cannonball, Ma,” Nero yells from the other side of the pool.
Renzo shoots him a death glare. “Snitch!”
“I’m not a snitch. I’m telling the truth.”
“What the hell do you think a snitch is, genius?”
“Renzo!” I scold, rolling my lips over my teeth to keep from laughing. “Watch your language.”
A reprimand my charmer of a middle child accepts with a smile, only to turn toward his brother and flip his middle finger.
The Marchesi genes run rampant in that one.
The crazy thing is I don’t worry about Renzo.
It’s Nero who keeps me up a night. He has such a pure and honest soul—sometimes too honest. It’s his head that will wear the crown, and I fear he’ll crumble under its weight.
Gianni will protect him as long as he can, but all our children were born into a legacy they can’t escape.
“Ciò che il sangue lega, solo la morte spezza,” I whisper.
What blood binds only death breaks.
I feel a tug on my skirt and look down to see Rosalia’s cherub face squinting up at me, an explosion of long dark curls trailing down her back.
My little girl, the youngest and most vocal Marchesi, is inquisitive and opinionated and way too perceptive for her father’s liking.
A quiet storm Gianni claims is me wrapped in a spicy Italian package. “Yes, piccolina ?”
She wraps her slim arms around my legs and squeezes. “Is Daddy a bad man?”
I set the basket on the ground, my chest tightening. “Why would you say that?”
“A girl at school said he hurts people on porpoise.”
“Purpose, love. Porpoises swim in the ocean.”
She blinks up at me like she knows I’m stalling…
Which I am.
I pick her up and sling her onto my hip. “I’ve told you the story of how Daddy saved me from a monster. He had to hurt the monster to keep me safe, but that doesn’t make him a bad man. That makes him a hero.”
My hero-laced devil.
She quirks her little heart-shaped lips. “I don’t want Daddy to be bad.”
And I don’t want him any other way.
“Good and bad are just labels, Rosie. There are people who’ll judge you; not because they don’t like you, but because they don’t understand you.”
“That’s not nice.”
I smile. God, I dread the day she loses this straightforward innocence.
She’s too little to know the scarlet letter her last name carries, so I pull a quarter from my pocket and explain it to her in a way she’ll understand.
“See this coin, my love? Most people think there are only two sides, but that’s not true.
” I flip it vertically. “See this thin part that separates them? That’s called a gray area.
It’s neither the front nor the back. It’s stuck somewhere in the middle, holding them both together. ”
“So, Daddy isn’t on either side. He’s both?”
My heart squeezes. Gianni is convinced Nero will be the first Marchesi to rule the Five Families, but I’m not so sure. I think his sister might give him a run for his money.
“That’s right. Daddy isn’t a good or a bad man, or the front or back of a coin. Not all heroes wear white. Sometimes they wear black and look a little scary.”
“So, Daddy doesn’t hurt people?”
Christ, this kid is like a mental ninja. Gianni’s right. She’s too much like her mother. Maybe those family footsteps should lead her in the opposite direction.
“Your friend hurt you by telling you that. Do you think that makes her a bad person?”
She purses her lips and thinks for a moment. “No.”
“Then you should always judge people by how you feel here…” I press a finger gently to her heart. “Not by what they say here.” I move my finger to her lips. “Do you understand?”
She nods her head. “No.”
An amused smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I lower her to her feet. “Good talk, Ro. Go play with your brothers.”
Rosalia’s concern with her father’s morality is forgotten within the first few seconds of Renzo’s announced water gun fight.
Taking the opportunity, I step through the double French doors into the kitchen to find Gianni leaned against the island, phone in hand, a scowl chiseled on his face.
Something about the way he stares at the screen unsettles me, but I’ve learned over the years not to ask questions.
If it’s important, he’ll share with me; otherwise, he likes to keep family business contained to Anton, Paulie, and occasionally Owen.
I watch him for a moment, marveling at how time has managed to make him even more ridiculously attractive than the day I met him.
He still has the same thick onyx hair, only it’s a little shorter and dusted with signs of an emerging silver fox, and that penetrating dark gaze still makes me catch my breath.
Biting my lip, I drag my eyes down the hard, muscular body most twenty-year-olds would give a kidney to have.
But what makes him the most appealing isn’t physical.
It’s watching him with our children. Gianni is the father both of us wish we’d had.
Our boys are protected and loved, and Rosalia is in another stratosphere of revered.
She’ll forever be Daddy’s little girl. I honestly feel sorry for the man she falls in love with.
Folding my arms across my chest, I lean against the wall and clear my throat.
Gianni looks up from his phone, his frown tipping upward as he nods toward the backyard. “What were you two talking about?”
I shrug. “Just girl stuff.”
Pocketing his phone, he pushes off the island and closes the distance between us. The comforting scent of spice and burnt pine surrounds me as he hooks his finger under my chin and tips it up. “What’s on your mind, Doc?”
“Nothing, I just…” A sigh works its way from my chest. Turning, I stare out the glass to where our three children play happily in the sun, blissfully unaware of the bloody world they were born into and the crowns that lie in wait.
“I worry about them. There’s only so long we can shield them from who they really are, Gianni. I just hope they’ll understand.”
“If anyone can help them to do it, it’s you.” His arms wrap around me from the back, anchoring me to him and this life we’ve built. “If you can save me, you can save anyone.” When I shake my head, he presses his lips to my temple. “We’re a family first, Becca. They’ve known nothing but love.”
“Will that be enough?”
“A wise woman once told me that love doesn’t keep receipts.”
I chuckle. “She sounds pretty smart.”
“She is. That’s why I married her.”
There’s a comfortable silence, one I feel a need to shatter for some odd reason. “Is everything okay? You seemed kind of tense a few minutes ago.”
He stiffens behind me, his grip tightening. “Just business. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good. Every time you get that look, I get nervous Toscano has called in his ‘favor.’”
It’s a black mark hanging over our heads.
A debt that never expires. Gianni agreed to an unspecified, ambiguous favor to be called in at any time for any purpose to save me.
I’ll never find a way to let go of that guilt, so I try my best to ignore it; until moments like this drag it front and center.
“I won’t let anyone hurt my family, Doc,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’d burn it all to the ground first.”
“I know.” That’s never been in question. He’s proven that time and again.
Neither of us speaks again, but we don’t have to.
Gianni and I have always communicated much better with our bodies than we do with words.
Maybe because words can hold lies, but a touch is undeniable and straightforward.
So we stare out at our children, just soaking in the life we fought so hard for.
Until Anton comes scurrying past us in a gray-haired blur, his hands flapping in a dismissive gesture. “What are you two still doing here? It’s your anniversary. You were supposed to leave an hour ago.”
“Are you sure you’re all right with watching them?” I ask.
“I’m going to ignore that question on the grounds it insults me.” He flings the French doors open. “There are my three favorite hellions…”
“ Nonno! ” Rosalia screams, leaping into his arms, quickly followed by a soaking wet Nero, who latches onto his waist from one side, while Renzo claims the other.
“See?” Anton announces with a proud smirk. “Now go. Your presence is no longer needed here.”
Gianni chuckles, his grip on my waist dragging me backward. “Come on, Doc. Nonno has spoken.”
I roll my eyes as he leads me away, but I’m smiling. Anton loves our kids as much as we do. He’s been there since the day they were born, hovering and fretting. He’s the only grandfather they’ve ever known, and as far as we’re concerned, he’s family.
“Happy fifteenth wedding anniversary, Mrs. Marchesi. Are you ready for some much-needed alone time?” He nods to the foyer where our suitcases are packed and sitting by the door.