Epilogue One
Lorenzo
Two years later
I have never been this fucking nervous in my life.
Not when I pulled a trigger for the first time. Not when I claimed my place as Capo. Not when I walked into rooms filled with men who would have killed me without hesitation.
But this?
This is different.
I check my watch again, even though I know it won’t make her appear any faster. My pulse beats heavy and relentless under my skin.
She better show up.
We’re in Tuscany, surrounded by rolling golden hills and vineyards that stretch endlessly under the late afternoon sun.
The air is warm, soft, carrying that distinct scent of summer and earth.
And in the middle of it all stands the cathedral ruin we chose, ancient, majestic, roofless, unapologetically raw.
Centuries-old stone arches rise toward the open sky, their edges worn but still defiant. The terracotta brick glows under the Tuscan light, and at the far end, a massive circular window carved into the wall frames nothing but endless blue sky. Sunlight pours through it, flooding the aisle in gold.
It feels eternal.
It feels unbreakable.
It feels like something that survived war, betrayal, and fire, and still stands.
This wedding is intimate. No reporters. No spectacle. No political display. Just family. Just the people who bled with us, who stood beside us when things fell apart, who chose us when it would have been easier to walk away.
White roses and hydrangeas line the narrow aisle, thick and overflowing, their scent blending with warm stone and fresh air. The ivory runner stretches across gravel, soft against the harshness of the ruins. Wooden chairs are set in simple rows, filled only with the people who matter.
On my left stand my brothers, Andres, Ian, Ice and Lev.
On my right are Serena’s bridesmaids, Sienna, Clara, and Kylie, wearing soft vanilla-yellow silk dresses that glow under the sunlight. The color looks like melted sunlight against ancient stone. Clara stands calm but distant, Sienna sharp and observant, Kylie on the verge of tears already.
In front of us sit our closest friends and family. The people who witnessed our worst moments. The people who stayed.
“Ordinary” by Alex Warren plays softly in the background.
And then I see her.
Fuck.
She looks out of this fucking world.
For a second, the Tuscan sun, the ancient arches, the guests, all of it fades into nothing. There is only her walking toward me through centuries-old stone like she was meant to stand at the center of history.
Her hair is lighter now, kissed by the Tuscany sun, falling in loose waves down her back in those same curls that have ruined me since the first time I buried my hands in them. The golden light catches every strand, turning them almost honey-colored against the pale stone backdrop.
And then I really see the dress.
It’s not just white.
It’s art.
The fabric clings to her body like it was sculpted for her alone, sheer lace layered over soft ivory lining, intricate floral embroidery tracing over her curves in delicate patterns.
The bodice is off-the-shoulder, elegant and dangerously feminine at the same time, lace framing her collarbones and sliding down her arms in detailed appliqués that look hand-stitched by angels.
The lace is almost illusion-like, revealing just enough of her skin beneath to make my pulse spike, but still bridal.
Still sacred. The fitted silhouette hugs her waist and hips before flowing into a dramatic mermaid train of layered tulle and lace that trails behind her over stone and gravel like spilled silk.
She doesn’t look delicate.
She looks powerful.
Like a queen wrapped in lace instead of armor.
Maddox walks first.
My boy.
He’s dressed in a tiny black tuxedo, bow tie slightly crooked because he refused to let anyone fix it properly. Pancake walks proudly at one side of him, Milkshake at the other, both of them in miniature dog suits that somehow make them look more serious than half the men I’ve ever negotiated with.
Maddox is carrying the rings.
My son is carrying the symbol of eternity between his small hands.
Beside him walks Celeste.
Our little flower girl.
She moves with absolute confidence in her white dress, scattering petals down the aisle like she owns the place. She grins at the guests, waving like this is her show, because, in her mind, it is.
Maddox reaches Ian, who scoops him up into his arms. Pancake and Milkshake join the groomsmen like they’ve been trained for this their entire lives.
Celeste runs to the bridesmaids, throwing kisses toward Lev. He pretends to catch them with exaggerated seriousness, pressing one to his chest. Clara watches the exchange with a soft smile that carries more emotion than she’d ever admit out loud.
And then Serena reaches me.
Up close, she steals whatever breath I had left.
“I thought you changed your mind,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended.
She laughs.
Music to my ears.
“I couldn’t miss the chance to wear this dress,” she whispers, winking at me.
God.
I love this woman.
The priest clears his throat gently, stepping forward beneath the open sky.
“We are gathered here, in the heart of Tuscany and under the witness of heaven, to unite two beautiful souls in holy matrimony,” he begins, his voice carrying softly through the ruins.
“Marriage is not simply the joining of hands, but the intertwining of lives. It is choosing each other every day, in love and in hardship, in strength and in vulnerability.”
He looks at us both.
“Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti, do you take Serena Evelyn Beaumont to be your wife? To love her, protect her, honor her, and stand beside her through all the days of your life?”
My eyes never leave hers.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do.”
His voice shifts to her.
“Serena Evelyn Beaumont, do you take Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti to be your husband? To love him, stand beside him, support him, and choose him every day, for the rest of your life?”
Her voice is soft, but steady.
“I do.”
Maddox wiggles excitedly as Ian lowers him so he can hand me the ring.
My fingers tremble as I take it.
I slide the band onto her finger slowly, deliberately.
“With this ring,” I murmur quietly enough that only she can hear, “I give you my heart. My loyalty. My forever.”
She takes my ring next.
Her hands are warm against mine.
“With this ring,” she whispers, eyes shining, “I choose you. Always.”
The priest smiles.
“By the power vested in me, and under the blessing of love and God, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The world seems to pause.
“You may kiss your bride.”
And I do.
Everyone stands.
The applause echoes through the ancient arches, bouncing off centuries-old stone like a blessing. For a second it feels unreal, like we’re standing in the middle of history, and history itself is clapping for us.
I look around.
Clara is crying openly now, mascara threatening to smudge but she doesn’t care. Sienna wipes at her cheeks, pretending she’s fine. Kylie is a mess, smiling and crying at the same time, hands pressed to her mouth like she’s witnessing something sacred.
Our family surrounds us, cameras flashing, phones raised, laughter mixing with tears. It’s not chaotic. It’s warm. Intimate. Real.
I see my mother first.
She’s standing next to Nicolas, holding onto him as she cries quietly. Dante is beside them, his expression proud, his hand resting protectively at her back. For the first time in years, she looks at peace.
Leo stands slightly to the side, camera in his hands, capturing every angle like it’s his personal mission. He became family the moment he was ready to die for us. He’s still Serena’s bodyguard, but he’s more than that now. He’s ours. Always has been.
Bianca wipes her eyes dramatically. Francesco stands beside her, pretending he isn’t emotional while very clearly being emotional.
On the other side, Kirill stands with Reina, his arm wrapped around her waist. Reina cries freely, no shame. Alisa gives us a small, proud smile. Anastasia is taking more pictures than Leo, documenting everything like this is the beginning of an empire.
Julian stands slightly behind them, smiling in a way that looks almost peaceful. And then I see his gaze shift.
Following Kylie.
And all around us are the people who stayed.
The ones who survived.
The ones who fought with us and for us.
I pull Serena into my arms, lifting her easily despite the weight of her gown and train. She laughs against my neck, her hands gripping my shoulders.
My wife.
The word hits differently now.
I carry her down the aisle as petals stick to the hem of her dress and applause follows us like a wave. The Tuscan sun warms my face, the ancient ruin watching silently as we step into whatever comes next.
I open the car door and settle her gently inside before leaning down to kiss her again.
“It’s time,” I murmur against her lips.
“For what?” she whispers, eyes glowing.
“Our honeymoon.”
She laughs softly, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
I close the door, walk around the car, and get behind the wheel.
The engine starts.
And as we drive away from the cathedral, from the applause, from the stone walls that witnessed our vows, I realize something that used to scare the fuck out of me.
I don’t need power. I don’t need fear. I don’t need control. Those things ruled my life once, shaped every decision, every war I fought. But none of it matters now. I have her. The woman who stayed when everything burned. The one person who makes the chaos of my world fall silent.
And that’s enough.