Epilogue
The new Shore Blooms smelled like roses and fresh paint and possibility.
Angela stood in the center of her shop—their shop, technically, though Edge insisted she run it however she wanted—and let herself feel the weight of everything she'd built.
Twice the size of the old place. Bigger coolers, better lighting, a workshop in the back that actually had room to move.
The tin ceiling she'd dreamed about gleamed overhead, restored to its original glory by a contractor who owed the Outlaws a favor.
It was seven in the morning, and she was already elbow-deep in wedding arrangements.
The Castellano family had waited. They'd pushed their ceremony back six weeks, and when Angela called to apologize for the delay, Mrs. Castellano had simply said: We heard what happened.
Take all the time you need. The shore towns talked, apparently.
And what they said about Angela Basile was worth waiting for.
The bell above the door chimed.
"Please tell me you brought coffee."
"Would I show up empty-handed?" Edge appeared beside her, two cups in hand, that almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He'd been doing that more lately—almost smiling. It still made her heart flip every time.
She took her cup, let his kiss land on her forehead, and turned back to her roses.
"How many arrangements left?"
"Twelve centerpieces, the ceremony arch, and about four hundred loose stems for the church pews." Angela trimmed a rose with practiced efficiency. "Plus the bouquets. And the boutonnieres. And the flower girl basket."
"So you'll be done by..."
"Midnight. Maybe later."
Edge settled onto the stool she kept near the workbench, watching her hands move through the blooms. He did this sometimes—just sat and watched her work, like the simple act of creating beauty was something worth observing.
"The house," he said.
"What about it?"
"The agent called. The owners accepted our offer."
Angela's hands stilled on the roses.
The Ventnor house. Three blocks from the water. Close enough to smell the salt every morning, just like his grandmother's place had been. They'd walked through it two weeks ago, and Angela had fallen in love before they'd finished the first floor.
"We got it?"
"We got it." Edge's voice was warm. "Closing's in thirty days. We can move in before the holidays."
Angela set down her shears, crossed to him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her onto his lap without hesitation, his hands finding their familiar place at her waist.
"Our house," she said.
"Our house." His forehead pressed against hers. "Our shop. Our life."
"You're getting very good at this sharing thing."
"I'm a quick learner."
She kissed him—slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that promised more when she wasn't surrounded by wedding flowers that needed to be perfect by tomorrow. Edge made a sound low in his throat and pulled her closer.
The bell chimed again.
"Get a room!" Block's voice boomed across the shop. "Some of us are trying to maintain an appetite!"
Angela pulled back, laughing, as Block shouldered through the door with Lily on his hip. The little girl was wearing a fresh flower crown—Angela had started making them weekly, just to see Lily's face light up.
"Miss Angela!" Lily squirmed until Block set her down, then ran to the workbench. "Is that for the wedding? Can I help? I'm really good at helping!"
"The best helper I've ever had." Angela lifted Lily onto the stool Edge had vacated. "See these rose petals? I need them sorted by size. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes!" Lily attacked the task with the fierce concentration only a seven-year-old could muster.
Block watched his daughter for a moment, something soft in his eyes. Then he turned to Edge.
"Church at noon. Jackpot wants to discuss the Longport situation."
Angela's hands didn't pause on the flowers.
The Longport situation meant club business—a new crew trying to move into territory south of Margate.
Edge had mentioned it last week. The Outlaws would handle it the way they always handled things: with violence, with territory, with the particular brand of protection that had kept the shore towns safe for years.
It didn't frighten her anymore. It was just part of the life she'd chosen.
"I'll be there," Edge said.
Block nodded, collected his daughter with promises of ice cream later, and headed out. The bell chimed behind him.
"You should go." Angela picked up another rose. "I've got about eighteen hours of work ahead of me anyway."
"I'm not leaving yet." Edge reclaimed his stool, his coffee, his spot watching her work. "Church isn't for three hours. I'd rather spend them here."
"Watching me trim roses?"
"Watching you." His eyes held hers with that intensity that still made her breath catch. "Making sure you're real. That this is real. That I didn't imagine the whole thing."
Angela's heart did something complicated in her chest.
Six weeks. Six weeks since the claiming ceremony, since she'd officially become his old lady, since she'd found a place in a world she'd never expected to belong to. Some mornings she still woke up confused, reaching for flowers that weren't there, listening for threats that had been eliminated.
But then she'd feel Edge beside her—solid, warm, hers—and everything would settle.
"I'm real," she said softly. "We're real."
"I know." He reached for her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "I just like reminding myself."
The morning passed in comfortable silence.
Edge handled the deliveries that came in—his idea, since it gave him an excuse to stay. Angela worked her way through the Castellano arrangements, each centerpiece more beautiful than the last. By the time he had to leave for Church, she'd finished eight of the twelve.
"I'll be back tonight," he said at the door. "We can look at paint colors for the house."
"You hate looking at paint colors."
"I hate being away from you more."
Angela laughed and pushed him toward the door. "Go. Protect your territory. I'll be here when you get back."
He kissed her—hard, brief, possessive—and was gone.
The day blurred past in the particular rhythm of wedding season.
Rosa stopped by at lunch with food Angela wouldn't have remembered to eat.
Grace called to discuss the bakery handling the Castellano cake and whether Angela needed any decorative elements coordinated.
Molly texted a photo of a tattoo she was designing for Angela—a small rose to match the braided cord she'd given Edge, something she'd been considering for weeks.
By evening, the arrangements were finished.
Angela stood back to survey her work. Twelve centerpieces. A ceremony arch that looked like something from a magazine. Hundreds of loose roses waiting to be transported tomorrow morning. The Castellano wedding would be beautiful, and Shore Blooms would get the credit.
Her grandmother would have been proud.
Angela cleaned her workstation, locked up the shop, and drove to the compound. She kept an apartment there now—technically Edge's room, but it had become theirs over the weeks. The Ventnor house would give them real space, a kitchen bigger than a closet, a yard where she could plant a garden.
A future that looked nothing like her past.
Edge found her on the dock, same place he always found her when she needed to think.
"Wedding's ready?"
"Wedding's ready." She leaned into him as his arm wrapped around her waist. "How was Church?"
"Handled. The Longport crew got the message. They won't be back."
Angela nodded. She didn't ask for details. Didn't need them. She trusted Edge to handle the violence while she handled the beauty, both of them protecting the shore towns in their own way.
"I've been thinking," she said.
"Dangerous."
"About where I was six weeks ago. Before the claiming. Before all of it." Angela turned in his arms, looking up at the face she'd learned to read like flowers. "I was so convinced I had to do everything alone. That accepting help meant failing. That needing someone meant being weak."
"And now?"
"Now I have a shop that's twice the size of my old one, a house three blocks from the water, and a man who shows up every morning just to watch me work." She smiled. "Turns out needing someone doesn't make you weak. It makes you stronger than you ever could have been alone."
Edge's arms tightened around her. "You were never weak. You were just waiting for someone worthy of fighting beside you."
"And I found him." Angela pressed her hand over his heart. "In the middle of a war I didn't ask for, surrounded by violence I never expected, I found someone who sees me. All of me. The florist and the fighter. The woman who builds beautiful things and the one who wanted to watch her enemies burn."
"All of you," Edge agreed. "Every stubborn, brilliant, beautiful part."
They stood on the dock as the sun set over the bay, the shore town lights flickering on one by one. Ventnor. Margate. Longport. The quiet communities that stretched along the coast, protected by men who operated in the shadows and the women who stood beside them.
Angela's life was here now. Not the carefully constructed existence she'd built before—the lonely apartment, the shop that was everything because she had nothing else, the future that looked exactly like her past.
This life was messier. More dangerous. Full of brothers who joked about crude things and old ladies who gave advice she hadn't asked for and a man who'd killed for her and would do it again without hesitation.
But it was hers.
The shop she'd rebuilt from ashes. The family she'd earned through fire. The man who called her his and meant it with every fiber of his being.
"Ready to go home?" Edge asked.
Angela looked at the compound behind her, then at the shore town lights stretching south. Home used to mean a place. Then it meant a person. Now it meant something bigger—a life she'd never planned but couldn't imagine living without.
"I am home," she said.
Edge smiled—a real smile, rare and precious and just for her.
"Yeah," he said. "You are."
They stood together as the darkness settled over the bay and the shore towns prepared for another night of peace.
Tomorrow there would be weddings to deliver and houses to paint and territory to protect.
Tomorrow the work would start again, the endless cycle of building beautiful things from whatever materials life provided.
But tonight, there was only this.
The salt air. The bay water. The man beside her who'd torn through her careful life and given her something wild and real in its place.
Angela leaned into Edge's warmth and let herself feel it—the certainty, the peace, the bone-deep knowledge that she'd found exactly where she belonged.
The shore towns stretched out before them, quiet and protected.
And Angela Basile stood with her man, solid and present, protecting them together.
THE END