Epilogue
CLARA
Sunlight bleeds through the heavy steel security shutters, casting thin, brilliant stripes across the king-sized mattress.
Dust motes dance in the fractured light. The penthouse is entirely silent. No alarms blaring. No gunfire echoing from the restaurant levels below. Just the steady, rumbling exhale of the massive man currently crushing half my body beneath his.
Matteo lies face down, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
His thick, coarse beard scratches pleasantly against my collarbone.
The heavy, brutal weight of his arm is thrown across my waist, pinning me to the mattress with territorial authority.
His left shoulder is bare, the dark tattoos stark against his warm skin.
A thick gold chain with a heavy medallion tangles in the sheets just beneath my chin.
He smells like spice, dark rum, and the deep, musky scent of a man who spent the entire night claiming what belongs to him.
My old life is gone. Smashed to pieces by a hit squad, sold to the mob by my own father to cover a gambling debt.
A week ago, I was a public school teacher grading spelling tests and complaining about the broken radiator in my cramped apartment.
Today, I am entirely owned by the underboss of the Chicago mafia.
And the absolute insanity of it all?
I have never felt safer.
Matteo shifts in his sleep. His grip tightens instantly, a subconscious, feral reaction to any movement. His massive hand flexes against my hip. He grunts, a deep, gravelly sound vibrating through his chest and straight into my spine.
"Mine," he murmurs into my skin, his voice thick with sleep and absolute obsession.
"I'm not going anywhere, giant," I whisper back, running my fingers through his dark hair, lingering on the sharp silver at his temples.
His eyelids flutter open. Dark, brooding eyes lock onto mine.
There is no groggy transition between sleep and wakefulness for a man who has lived in a mental war zone for twenty years.
He goes from deeply asleep to lethally alert in a microsecond.
He scans the room, scans the shadows, and then his gaze drops back to my face.
The tension drains out of his massive frame. He buries his face back in my neck, inhaling deeply.
"You smell like fresh linen," he rumbles, his lips brushing my pulse point. "And mine."
"You smell like a bakery that also sells illegal liquor."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my chest. "You complain too much, Clara."
"You bought me. You have to deal with the customer service issues."
He pushes up on one elbow, towering over me.
His chest is broad, covered in dark hair, every inch of him screaming danger and brutality.
Yet the way he looks at me holds a reverence that completely undoes my sassy defenses.
He reaches up, his large, calloused thumb brushing a stray curl away from my cheek.
"I didn't buy you," he says, his voice dropping into that dark, serious register. "I claimed you. There's a difference. The contract is ashes. You stayed because you belong to me."
"I stayed because you make really good bread."
His jaw twitches. A slow, dangerous smirk curves his lips. "Is that right?"
"Mhm. It's purely culinary."
He dips his head, capturing my lips in a deep, bruising kiss. It tastes like coffee, dark rum, and absolute devotion. My hands tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. He happily complies, dropping his crushing weight back down, pressing me deep into the mattress.
My stomach dips. Heat crawls up my neck.
The memories of last night—the flour, the kitchen island, the violent lockdown, the sheer, primal chaos of his claiming—rush back with vivid clarity.
"We need to get up," I murmur against his mouth. "Your pristine, commercial-grade kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off inside a tornado."
Matteo sighs heavily, pressing his forehead against mine. "Let the cleaners handle it."
"Absolutely not. If one of your mafia cleaners walks into that kitchen, they're going to find torn silk panties draped over the espresso machine. I am not dealing with that kind of workplace gossip."
A dark, rumbling laugh escapes him.
He rolls off the bed, completely unashamed of his naked, brutally scarred body, and tosses me one of his oversized black t-shirts. It hangs to my mid-thigh, swallowing me entirely.
He pulls on a pair of dark sweatpants, leaving his chest bare, the gold medallion resting against his sternum.
We walk out into the massive, open-concept living area. The penthouse remains in lockdown mode. The heavy steel shutters cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the luxury apartment into an impenetrable vault. The ambient track lighting provides a soft, golden glow.
The kitchen is exactly the disaster zone I predicted.
White flour coats the black marble island. It dusts the stainless steel appliances. A broken bag of yeast sits tipped over near the sink. My torn underwear hangs pitifully from the handle of the commercial oven. The physical evidence of Matteo's feral loss of control is everywhere.
He stands in the doorway, staring at the mess. His massive hands rest on his hips.
"I ruined the dough," he states, completely serious.
I burst out laughing, clapping a hand over my mouth. "That is your takeaway? You destroyed the kitchen, annihilated my clothes, and permanently scarred the counter, but you're mourning the focaccia dough?"
He shoots me a dark, brooding glare. "It was an eighty percent hydration dough, Clara. It required a twenty-four-hour cold ferment. It's a tragedy."
"You are a ridiculous man."
I grab a damp rag from the sink and start wiping down the marble. Matteo steps in immediately, snatching the rag from my hand with an annoyed grunt.
"Sit," he commands, pointing to one of the tall leather barstools. "You don't clean. I clean. You sit there and look pretty."
"I'm a teacher, Matteo. I wipe down chalkboards and glue-covered desks for a living. I can handle a little flour."
"You are my woman. You don't scrub counters." He turns his massive back to me, aggressively wiping the flour off the marble with completely unnecessary force.
I roll my eyes but climb onto the stool, pulling my knees to my chest. Watching this terrifying, lethally dangerous mafia underboss angrily clean up baking ingredients because he refuses to let me do a chore is the most bizarre, endearing thing I have ever witnessed.
The security comms panel on the far wall chimes, a sharp, electronic chirp cutting through the quiet.
Matteo freezes. The domestic baker vanishes in an instant. The lethal enforcer returns. His shoulders bunch, the tribal tattoo flexing as his hand instinctively drops toward the waistband of his sweatpants, right where he normally keeps his weapon.
He stalks over to the panel and punches a biometric code. A small screen flickers to life, showing the private elevator vestibule downstairs.
"Speak," Matteo barks into the comms.
"Unlock the vault, cousin," Dominic's cold, sharp voice filters through the speaker. "We need to talk. I brought Turi."
Matteo's jaw tightens. He glances back at me, his dark eyes scanning my face for any sign of fear or discomfort. I nod once. I am not running to hide in the bedroom. I chose this world. I am staying right here.
"Coming up," Matteo says, hitting the override switch.
The heavy hum of the private elevator engaging vibrates through the floorboards. Matteo walks over to me, boxing me in against the counter. He grips my hips, his massive hands warm and firm through the thin cotton of the t-shirt.
"Dominic is handling the cleanup downstairs," he says, his voice low. "Turi is bringing the final reports on the Bellanti strike. You don't have to stay out here. You can go to the room."
"I'm not hiding, Matteo."
His eyes drop to my mouth. "Stubborn."
"It's part of my charm."
The elevator doors chime and slide open, echoing through the massive foyer. Heavy footsteps approach the kitchen.
Dominic Costa walks in first. He is a terrifying mirror of Matteo—sharp, cold, wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that somehow makes him look even more dangerous. His eyes are dead, entirely devoid of the warmth Matteo hides underneath his brooding exterior.
Behind him steps an older man. Turi. He is in his late sixties, with a thick head of silver hair and a deeply weathered face.
He wears a dark, old-school wool coat. His eyes are surprisingly kind, carrying a heavy, sorrowful weight that speaks of decades spent surviving this violent life.
He carries a thick leather folder tucked under his arm.
"Figlio," Turi says warmly, offering Matteo a slight nod. His gaze shifts to me, lingering for a fraction of a second, before he offers a polite, respectful bow. "Signorina."
"Turi," Matteo says, his voice carrying a deep respect. He steps slightly in front of me, a purely instinctual, protective barrier. "Dom. Report."
Dominic drops a small stack of burner phones on the pristine marble counter.
"The restaurant level is bleached. The five dead Bellanti men are untraceable.
The bodies are already in the incinerator at the docks.
We left the final man alive, just as we agreed.
He delivered the message to the Bellanti boss. "
Matteo crosses his arms over his chest. "And the response?"
"Silence," Dominic says smoothly. "They are regrouping. They lost a major shipment of munitions, and they lost their assault team. The war is fully active now, but they will not strike Il Corvo again. They know this penthouse is a fortress."
Turi steps forward, placing the leather folder gently on the counter. He looks at me again, his expression softening into something resembling pity.
"The other matter," Turi says, his voice raspy and quiet. "Arthur Reeves."
My stomach clenches. The name of the man who sold me. The man who raised me, lied to me, and handed me over to monsters to save his own skin.