Epilogue Adriana
SIX MONTHS LATER
The house is perfect.
That's the first thing I think when Lachlan pulls the car into the driveway, and I see the red brick facade, the white trim around the windows, the maple tree in the front yard that will sprout leaves before long, when spring comes.
It's not a mansion. It's not a penthouse with bulletproof glass and armed guards on every floor. It's a home.
A real home, in a quiet suburb twenty minutes outside the city, with neighbors who wave when they see you and kids riding bikes down the tree-lined street.
The kind of place I used to dream about when I was locked in that room at the Santoro estate, staring out the window and imagining a different life.
The kind of place Lachlan and I used to daydream about having together.
"What do you think?" Lachlan's voice is hopeful, and when I turn to look at him, I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. He's afraid I won't like it, that he's gotten it wrong somehow.
God, I love him.
"It's perfect," I tell him, and I mean it. "Lachlan, it's perfect."
The tension in his shoulders eases, and he smiles. It still takes my breath away, and makes him look like the boy I fell in love with all those years ago. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I reach over and take his hand, squeezing it. "Can we go inside?"
"Mama, can I see my room?" Matteo's voice comes from the backseat, excited and impatient. I turn to see him practically bouncing in his seat. "You said I get my own room, right? With a big window?"
"You get your own room," Lachlan confirms, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. He cuts the engine and opens his door. "Come on. Let's go check it out."
Matteo is out of the car before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, racing up the front walk toward the door.
He's so much happier now than he was six months ago—more like the child he should have been all along.
The nightmares still come, and there are moments when he flinches at loud noises or gets quiet and withdrawn, but he's healing.
We're all healing.
Lachlan comes around to my side of the car and opens the door for me, offering his hand. I take it, letting him help me out, and when I stand, he pulls me close, his arms wrapping around my waist.
"I love you," he murmurs against my hair. "I know I say it all the time, but I need you to know. I love you, Adriana. More than anything."
"I know." I tilt my head back to look at him, and the sunlight catches in his copper hair, turning it to fire. "I love you too."
He kisses me, slow and deep, and I lose myself in it for a moment, the warmth of his body against mine, the way his hands tighten on my waist like he can't bear to let me go.
"Dad!" Matteo's voice breaks through the haze. "Are you coming or what?"
Lachlan laughs against my mouth, pulling back just enough to call over his shoulder, "We're coming, buddy. Hold on."
"You're stalling!" Matteo accuses, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
"Maybe I am." Lachlan takes my hand and leads me up the walk, and when we reach the front door, he pulls out a key and hands it to me. "You should be the one to open it."
My throat tightens. "Lachlan—"
"It's our house, Adriana. I want you to open the door."
I take the key, my hands trembling slightly, and slide it into the lock. It turns smoothly, and the door swings open to reveal a bright, open entryway with hardwood floors and a staircase leading up to the second floor.
It's beautiful.
Matteo pushes past us, his sneakers squeaking on the polished wood as he runs toward the stairs. "I'm going to find my room!"
"Second door on the left!" Lachlan calls after him, and then he's gone, his footsteps thundering up the stairs.
I step inside, and Lachlan follows, closing the door behind us.
The house smells like fresh paint and new wood, and the afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the floor.
"The kitchen's through here," Lachlan says, gesturing to the left.
"And the living room's that way. There's a den in the back that I thought we could turn into an office, and—"
His phone rings, cutting him off mid-sentence. He pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, and his expression shifts—just slightly, but I notice. "I need to take this. It's Declan."
"Go ahead." I wave him off, already moving toward the kitchen. "I want to look around anyway."
He nods, lifting the phone to his ear as he walks toward the den. "Declan. What's going on?"
I step into the kitchen, and oh, it's gorgeous.
White cabinets, marble countertops, stainless steel appliances that gleam in the sunlight.
There's an island in the center with bar stools, and a breakfast nook by the window that looks out over the backyard.
I run my hand along the cool marble, imagining Matteo sitting at the island doing homework while I make dinner.
Imagining Lachlan coming home from work and wrapping his arms around me from behind, kissing my neck while I chop vegetables.
Normal things. A normal life.
"—testing the limits," Lachlan's voice drifts in from the other room, low and tense. "How many shipments?"
I move toward the window, looking out at the backyard. There's a patio, a stretch of green lawn, a wooden fence separating our yard from the neighbors'. I can picture Matteo playing out there, running around with a soccer ball, laughing.
"They're pushing because they think we're weak," Lachlan says, and there's an edge to his voice now. "They think the transition means we're vulnerable."
The Capetti family, I realize. Declan mentioned them a few weeks ago—another crime family in Chicago that's been watching the Irish mob closely since Lachlan stepped back and Declan took over.
It makes me feel a frisson of anxiety, but Lachlan has kept my promise. He gives Declan advice, but he stays far away from anything that could bring trouble to our door. I know there's a possibility it could—Lachlan was a mob boss once, and that can never be erased, but he's doing the best he can.
And for me, it's been enough. Matteo is free of ever having to be around that life, and that's what I wanted the most.
"Mama!" Matteo's voice echoes from upstairs. "Come see my room!"
"Coming!" I call back, pushing away from the window.
I head upstairs, following the sound of Matteo's excited chatter, and find him in a room at the end of the hall.
It's big and bright, with two windows overlooking the front yard and enough space for a bed, a desk, and all the toys he's accumulated over the past six months.
"Look!" He spins around, his arms spread wide. "It's huge! And I can see the street from here!"
"It's perfect," I agree, moving to stand beside him at the window. "You can watch for Dad to come home."
"And I can see if anyone's coming," he adds. There's caution in his voice that makes my chest ache.
He's still afraid sometimes. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"No one's coming, baby," I tell him gently, crouching down so we're eye level. "We're safe here. Uncle Gio is gone, and your dad made sure no one can hurt us."
"I know." He nods, but his eyes are serious. "But it's good to be able to see anyway. Just in case."
Just in case. I pull him into a hug, holding him tight, and he wraps his arms around my neck. He's getting so big—nine and a half now, all long limbs and boundless energy. But he's still my baby. He'll always be my baby.
"I love you," I whisper into his hair. "So much, Matteo."
"I love you too, Mama."
We stay like that for a moment, and then he pulls back, grinning. "Can I pick out paint colors? Dad said I could paint the walls whatever I want."
"Whatever you want," I confirm. "Within reason."
"What if I want black?"
"Then we'll talk about it." I ruffle his hair, standing up. "Why don't you explore the rest of the house? There's a backyard you haven't seen yet."
He's gone in an instant, racing back down the stairs, and I follow more slowly, taking my time to look at the other rooms. There's a guest bedroom, a bathroom with a clawfoot tub, and at the end of the hall, the master suite.
I step inside, and my breath catches. It's beautiful. Spacious and airy, with a king-sized bed already set up, a sitting area by the window, and an en-suite bathroom with a walk-in shower and a soaking tub. The walls are painted a soft gray, and there are gauzy white curtains framing the windows.
Our room. Mine and Lachlan's.
I move to the window and look out at the backyard, watching Matteo run across the lawn, his laughter carrying on the breeze. Lachlan is still on the phone, pacing near the patio, his free hand gesturing as he talks.
"—handle it however you see fit," he's saying. "You're in charge now, Declan. I trust your judgment."
There's a pause, and then he laughs—short and sharp. "Yeah, well, they'll learn. Just make sure they learn without anyone getting killed if you can help it."
Another pause. "I know. I know it's not always possible. Just... do your best. And call me if you need anything."
He hangs up and stands there for a moment, staring down at his phone, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw is tight. He's worried.
But then Matteo runs up to him, tugging on his sleeve, and Lachlan's expression shifts. He smiles, crouching down to Matteo's level, and whatever my son is saying makes him laugh.
He's trying. He's really trying. And that's all I can ask for.
I turn away from the window and move back downstairs, finding them in the kitchen. Matteo is chattering about paint colors, and Lachlan is nodding along, his hand resting on Matteo's shoulder. "What do you think, Adriana?" Lachlan asks when he sees me. "Blue or green for his room?"
"I think we should let him decide," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "It's his room."
"Blue," Matteo says immediately. "Like the ocean."
"Blue it is." Lachlan ruffles his hair. "We'll go to the paint store this weekend and pick out the exact shade."
"Can I help paint?"