Epilogue
Mauricio
“She has your eyes.”
Regina’s voice echoes through our villa’s nursery, where the late afternoon sun casts a soft, golden glow. I look up from the crib, where our daughter sleeps—three months old and already taking charge of our world with tiny fists and demands that come at ungodly hours.
“She has your stubbornness.” I keep my voice low, not wanting to wake Sara after the battle it took to get her down for a nap. “Last night she screamed for an hour because I held her wrong. Apparently, only you know the correct angle.”
“That’s not stubbornness. That’s good taste.” Regina settles beside me, her hand finding mine as we both stare at the small miracle we’ve created. “She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand it. Sound like anyone you know?”
“You’re saying our daughter is already as difficult as her mother?”
“I’m saying she’s perfect.” But Regina’s smiling, that soft expression she reserves for moments like this—quiet domesticity that a year ago seemed impossible. “Just like her father, despite his claims that I’m the difficult one in this relationship.”
I pull her close, breathing in bergamot and vanilla and the baby powder scent that’s become permanent in our home. “One year married. Three-month-old daughter. A successful import business that is generating more profit than Simeone’s legitimate operations. I’d say we’re doing well.”
“We’re doing perfectly.” She leans into me, and we stand in comfortable silence watching Sara sleep with the intensity only new parents understand. “Though I could do without the three AM feeding schedule.”
“We’re taking turns with that.” My reminder is gentle. “You fed her at one. I’ll handle the next.”
“You say that now.” But she’s already relaxing against me. “Wait until she’s screaming and you remember that sleep is precious and maybe your wife should just handle it since she’s better at—”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, harsh against the quiet moment. I consider ignoring it because nothing is more important than this, than my wife and daughter, and the peace we’ve built. But old habits die hard, and the number showing is one of my remaining contacts from the old life.
“I need to take this.” I press a kiss to Regina’s temple. “Two minutes.”
I slip onto the terrace, closing the French doors behind me before answering. “Christopher. This better be important.”
“Boss.” The voice on the other end carries tension I don’t like. “Sorry to bother you, but you said to call if we spotted anything unusual.”
“What kind of unusual?” I watch through the glass as Regina settles into the rocking chair, her attention still on Sara’s crib.
“Flavio Codella. At Palermo airport three hours ago. He took a flight to New York. Commercial airline, traveling under his own name like he doesn’t care who knows he’s leaving Sicily.”
The information hits like cold water, washing away the warm contentment of moments before. Flavio. The exile who’s been skulking around Sicily for the past year, making small plays with minor families while nursing his bitterness like fine wine.
“You’re certain it was him?”
“Positive ID. Even got photos if you want confirmation.” Papers rustle on Christopher’s end. “But boss, the thing that’s strange? He wasn’t sneaking. Wasn’t using fake documents. Just bought a ticket and boarded like any tourist heading home.”
That’s what concerns me. Because Flavio doing something like this openly suggests he has a plan; he obviously believes he has protection or leverage that makes subtlety unnecessary. “His exile was supposed to last seven years. It’s only been a good part of one.”
“Maybe he got homesick?” But Christopher’s tone suggests he doesn’t believe his own suggestion.
“Maybe he’s gotten desperate or stupid or both.
” I watch Regina through the glass, seeing her completely at peace in a way that makes my chest tight.
We’ve built this safety, family, future.
And now Flavio’s return threatens the carefully maintained balance between our life here and the world we left behind.
“Keep watching. If he comes back to Sicily, I want to know immediately.”
“Will do. Sorry to ruin your evening, boss.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. You did exactly what I pay you to do.” I disconnect, but my hand stays wrapped around the phone like it might offer answers.
Flavio is heading to New York. Back to Simeone’s territory after a year of exile. The timing is too calculated to be a coincidence, too bold to be simple homesickness.
I dial before I can second-guess the impulse, and Simeone answers on the second ring.
“Mauricio. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice carries the easy contentment of someone whose biggest problem is probably Alessandro refusing vegetables.
“Flavio’s coming back.” No point in softening the blow. “My contact spotted him at Palermo airport three hours ago. He took a commercial flight to New York, traveling under his own name.”
The silence that follows is weighted with implications. When Simeone speaks again, his voice has shifted—less domestic contentment, more calculating don.
“You’re certain?”
“Positive ID with photo confirmation.” I lean against the terrace railing, watching the Mediterranean turn gold under the setting sun. “He wasn’t hiding, wasn’t using false documents. Just bought a ticket and left like exile was a suggestion rather than a sentence.”
“That’s concerning.” Papers rustle on Simeone’s end. “His exile has six years remaining. Either he’s gotten incredibly stupid or he thinks he has leverage that makes his return viable.”
“Or someone’s backing him. Giving him confidence that your enforcement of his exile won’t hold.” The thought makes my tactical mind race through possibilities. “Who would be bold enough and stupid enough to support him against you?”
“Several families might see him as a useful proxy for testing my resolve.” Simeone’s assessment is clinical. “Or he’s made promises he can’t keep about inside information or access to operations. Either way, he’s a problem that needs addressing.”
“Agreed.” I glance through the glass to where Regina’s now holding Sara. “What do you need from me?”
“Nothing.” His voice is firm. “You’ve built a life, Mauricio. You have a wife and daughter. I’m not pulling you back into this mess because my exile can’t follow simple instructions.”
“Simeone—”
“I mean it.” His voice softens slightly. “This is my problem to handle. Flavio’s return threatens my authority, not yours. Let me deal with it.”
“And if he comes back to Sicily?” The question needs asking. “He’s been here for a year, fratello. Making connections with families who don’t respect your reach. If he returns with backing from New York operations—”
“Then you handle him as you see fit in your territory.” The permission is clear. “But only if he threatens you directly. Otherwise, this is my mess to clean up.”
I hear Loriana’s voice in the background, asking a question I can’t make out. Simeone’s response is muffled, then he’s back.
“Loriana wants me to ask if Regina and Sara are doing well.”
“They’re perfect,” I say. “She’s just three months old and already has both of us completely wrapped around those tiny fingers.”
“Parenthood will do that.” Warmth returns to his voice. “Alessandro just learned to walk. Now he’s into everything, destroying the house one expensive vase at a time. Loriana threatens to bubble-wrap the entire estate.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It’s perfect.” His admission carries the same wonder I feel watching my own daughter. “Exhausting and perfect and exactly what I never thought I’d have.”
We fall into a comfortable silence—two men who’ve survived too much, built too much, and somehow ended up with exactly what we needed rather than what we thought we wanted.
“Keep me updated on Flavio,” I say finally. “Even if you don’t need my help, I want to know what he’s planning. Old habits.”
“Old habits,” Simeone agrees. “And Mauricio? Thank you. For the warning. For still watching my back even when you’re building your own empire.”
“We’re brothers. That doesn’t expire just because I moved countries.”
“No. It doesn’t.” His voice roughens slightly. “Give Regina and Sara my love. And enjoy your evening. Some of us are about to spend the night chasing a toddler who thinks bedtime is optional.”
I laugh, disconnecting as Regina appears at the terrace door with Sara in her arms. Our daughter’s storm-gray eyes—my eyes—blink sleepily against the fading light.
“Everything okay?” Regina’s question carries concern beneath a casual tone. “You had your ‘tactical problem’ face.”
“Flavio’s heading back to New York.” I cross to them, letting Sara’s tiny hand wrap around my finger with surprising strength. “Broke his exile. Simeone’s handling it, but I wanted to warn him.”
“Should we be worried?” Regina shifts Sara to her other shoulder, the movement practiced after three months of constant adjustments. “About Flavio coming back?”
“No.” I mean it, because whatever threat Flavio poses exists three thousand miles away in a life we’ve left behind. “He’s Simeone’s problem unless he makes himself ours. And even then, he’s one bitter exile against everything we’ve built here.”
“Good.” But Regina’s studying me with that sharp intelligence that misses nothing. “Because I’m not interested in letting Simeone’s former nephew disrupt the perfect life we’ve created.”
“Neither am I.” I pull them both close—my wife and daughter, my chosen family, my reason for everything. “We’ve survived worse than Flavio Codella. We’ll survive this, too.”
Sara makes a small sound—not quite crying but heading there. Regina laughs, the sound bright and free.
“Someone’s hungry again. Your daughter has your appetite.” She heads back inside, but pauses at the threshold. “Mauricio? Whatever happens with Flavio, we handle it together. Right?”
“Together.” I follow them inside, closing the door on Mediterranean sunset and distant threats. “Always together.”
As Regina settles into the chair to feed Sara, I watch from the doorway—struck again by the magnitude of what we’ve built.
Just a little over a year ago, we were destroying empires and fighting for survival.
Now we’re navigating feeding schedules, debating nursery colors, and building something that’s ours in every way that matters.
Flavio’s return is a problem. But it’s a distant problem, belonging to a world we’ve left behind even if we maintain careful connections. Here, in this villa overlooking the sea, with my wife and daughter safe and happy, nothing else reaches us unless we allow it.
And I’m not allowing anything to threaten this peace we’ve fought so hard to claim.
My phone sits silent on the table, and I leave it there—choosing this moment, this family, this life over whatever chaos Flavio’s planning three thousand miles away.
Some battles are worth fighting.
Others are just noise from a past that doesn’t get to define our future.
I know which category Flavio falls into.
And I’m done letting ghosts from old lives haunt the one I’m building with my beautiful wife.
The end.