Epilogue
AISLING
Six Weeks Later
The house feels like it’s breathing. Not the quiet, watchful breath it used to have when danger lived in every corner, but something warmer, happier.
Voices echo down the halls, overlapping laughter and arguments about seating and food and who parked where.
The Chiaroscuro house has always been large, but today it feels full in a way it never has before.
The renovations are finally finished, and the rebuilt Chiaroscuro house gleams in the unseasonably bright late-fall sun.
Cream-colored stone.
Wide windows.
Open terraces instead of scaffolding.
It looks magnificent now.
Loved.
Lived in.
Alive.
I stand near the window in the main sitting room, one hand braced against the glass, the other resting unconsciously on my stomach.
Raf catches my eye from across the room, his expression softening instantly.
A silent conversation passes between us, one we’ve been having a lot lately.
Are you okay? Do you need to sit? Are you overwhelmed? Are you happy?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Always yes.
He crosses the room without a word and slides his hand into mine, grounding me just as Sandro clears his throat loudly.
“Alright,” Raf’s twin announces. “Before someone starts a fistfight over the antipasti, I think Raf and Aisling have something they want to say.”
A dozen conversations grind to a halt.
Heads turn.
Smiles bloom.
My mother presses her hands together expectantly.
My father’s already grinning like he knows something he shouldn’t.
Miko lounges against the wall with a drink, sharp-eyed but amused as he keeps one arm slung around Anika and the newborn baby in her arms.
Leo and Gio hover nearby, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen them before, immersed in their discussion about shipping routes now that they’re taking over the legitimate side of the Chiaroscuro business.
But they lift their heads, turning their eyes to us upon Sandro’s request.
Raf squeezes my hand.
“You ready?” he murmurs.
I nod, even though my heart starts racing.
He steps forward first, because of course he does.
He’s learned how to command a room without raising his voice, how to make people lean in rather than shrink back.
“We wanted to thank you all for coming today,” he says.
“And for… everything. The last few months have been chaos. But somehow, out of all of it, we ended up here.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and reassuring.
“Aisling and I are very happy to announce that we’re expecting. ”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then the room erupts.
My mother lets out a delighted cry and rushes forward, my father and siblings right behind her.
Evi laughs outright, joy brimming from her eyes as Sandro’s lips curve into a secretive smile—like he knew all along.
Miko raises his glass in a sharp, approving salute.
Leo mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer of thanks while Gio whoops and claps Raf on the back hard enough to make him grunt.
I barely have time to breathe before Raf lifts his hand again.
“And,” he adds, a dangerous glint of amusement in his eyes, “there’s more.”
The room quiets again.
I swallow, then step forward myself this time. “We’re not expecting just one.”
Confusion ripples through the crowd.
“Or two,” I continue, my voice shaking with excitement now despite myself.
Realization dawns in slow motion.
“We’re having triplets,” Raf finishes.
The reaction is glorious.
My mother actually sits down. My father stares at us like he’s just been told he won the lottery twice. Sandro looks torn between laughter and sheer disbelief, finally caught on his back foot by our announcement.
My brothers look like they’re on the brink of having a meltdown, while Siobhan claps her hands over her mouth to muffle the unladylike squeal that escapes her.
“Triplets,” Sandro repeats faintly. “Always trying to show me up, aren’t you, brother?”
Raf laughs, pulling me into his side. “We’re just making up for lost time.”
The congratulations come in a wave—hugs, hands pressed to my belly, teasing comments about needing a bigger house, promises of help that already feel overwhelming and wonderful all at once. I watch it all from the center of the storm, feeling strangely peaceful.
This is our life now.
When the excitement settles into something more manageable, the room fractures into clusters again.
People eat, talk, laugh. Sora and Anika’s babies join the discussion with garbled nonsense as Riley and Stephanie and Gio’s son, Jackson, get better acquainted over LEGOs.
I find myself watching Raf from across the room, the way he listens when Leo speaks, the way he checks in with Sandro without even looking, the way his posture shifts when Riley climbs into his lap.
She’s been bouncing with energy all day, thrilled by the idea of cousins and siblings and grandparents who spoil her rotten.
By the time evening creeps in, she’s drooping, her head heavy against Raf’s chest, which seems to be her new favorite location.
“I’ve got her,” he says quietly when he catches my eye.
I nod, suddenly emotional.
He lifts her with practiced ease and carries her upstairs, her arms already slack around his neck.
I follow a few steps behind, stopping in the doorway to her room.
Raf lowers her onto the bed gently, like she’s something precious and breakable.
He tucks the blankets around her, smooths her hair back from her face.
A routine which has quickly become my favorite part of the day.
“Night, peanut,” he murmurs. “I love you.”
She stirs just enough to smile. “Love you too, Daddy.”
The word still makes my throat tighten.
About a month ago, we had the very hard conversation with Riley about who her real parents are, and it went shockingly well.
Riley was very excited because, as she put it, we are her two favorite people in the whole wide world, and now, not only does she get to live with us, but she has a claim to real, live grandparents as well—a fact my mother was less happy to discover.
But she’s coming around about the name Grandma.
I lean against the doorframe, watching Raf, memorizing this version of him.
Not the Don.
Not the fighter.
Just a father, kneeling beside his daughter, making sure the nightlight is on and no monsters are hiding under her bed.
When he turns and sees me watching, something soft crosses his face.
“She out?” I whisper.
“Gone,” he says.
We close the door quietly and walk back down the hall together, hands brushing, then linking without either of us thinking about it.
The house is calmer now, family gradually filtering out with promises to visit soon.
My parents linger just long enough to kiss me goodbye and tell Raf again how proud they are of us.
When the last guest leaves, the silence that follows settles over me like a comforting blanket.
Raf turns to me, eyes warm and intent, and before I can say anything, he kisses me.
It’s slow, unhurried.
The kind of kiss that makes my knees weak for no dramatic reason.
I laugh softly against his mouth. “You’re going to make me forget how tired I am.”
“That’s the idea,” he murmurs.
He scoops me up without warning, and I squeak, clutching at his shoulders as butterflies take flight in my belly.
“Raf!”
“You didn’t say no,” he points out, already heading for the stairs.
Giddy laughter bubbles from me, and I lean in to steal soft, playful kisses across his lips, jaw, ears, and neck.
He absorbs each one with a low hum of anticipation, his hands kneading my thighs and ass in response.
The bedroom door closes behind us with a quiet click, and we topple back onto the bed together.
There’s no rush, no firestorm.
Just hands and whispers and the steady reassurance of being chosen, again and again.
He treats me like something precious, like the three tiny lives growing inside me are both fragile and sacred, and I love just how deeply his care and concern manifests in everything he does.
I feel safe and protected and so unequivocally loved. His lips worship my skin, his fingertips reverent as they stroke and massage me into bliss, and when Raf slides inside me, I’ve never felt so whole, so complete.
He’s the perfect man for me, the only one I’ll ever want to love, and this life is the perfect one I never dreamed I could have.