Epilogue
Elena
The terrace doors are open to the late-afternoon sun, stirring the gauzy curtains until they dance against the stone floor.
I stand at the railing, one hand resting on the warm iron, the other cradled low over the small, firm curve of my belly. Twenty-two weeks. Far enough that the world can see it now, close enough that every flutter still feels like a secret between us.
It’s funny how quickly life can change in just a year.
Below, the garden is alive with voices.
Luca races across the lawn with two younger boys from the village. They’re playing some chaotic version of keep away, barefoot and shouting as a ball skids wildly over the manicured grass. Luca’s dark hair bounces with every step he takes. His laugh rings clear and bright.
I watch him and feel my throat tighten.
A year ago, I stood on this same terrace and wondered if I’d ever stop waiting for the next gunshot to ring out, the next black car to follow behind us, the next betrayal that would tear everything I loved apart again.
A year ago, I still woke up from nightmares reaching for a weapon, my heart hammering in my throat because I thought I heard footsteps climbing up the stairs to get to us.
Now the only footsteps I hear are Luca’s running to tell me about a goal he scored or Dante’s coming to find me when his meetings are done and he’s eager to see me.
The Cosenza empire is different now.
Dante has spent the last year hunting every loose thread connected to Enzo and Carlo. Whatever remaining lieutenants, including the Bellanti Don who slipped away that night and was never found again, have slowly been taken out one by one.
Not all of them with bullets—some with exile, others with deals that left them too afraid to ever speak the Cosenza name again. Dante didn’t want a complete bloodbath, but he did want the guarantee of safety.
Somehow, against every doubt I’d carried for so long, he’s done just that.
Romano still handles the ports. Bianchi still oversees the security teams and tactical enforcers. Leonardo, who once dragged me out of Brooklyn in the middle of the night, now spends most of his time training the younger men and complaining when they don’t respect the old ways.
Everyone these days seems much happier.
I hear him before I see him, the faint creak of leather against stone as he moves down the hallway toward me.
When I turn, I find Dante standing in the doorway to our bedroom. He steps out onto the terrace, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open, hair still damp from the shower he must have taken after his last meeting.
“He behaving himself down there?” he murmurs, eyes moving down to the gardens below.
I smile without looking away. “Well, if you call terrorizing the neighborhood kids behaving, then yes.”
He leans his hand on the railing, gaze following Luca as the boy steals the ball and sprints toward a makeshift goal. Pride flickers across Dante’s face. It’s the same look he gets every time Luca calls him Papa without hesitation.
“He’s fast,” Dante says. “Leo’s already trying to recruit him for the under-fourteen training squad.”
I laugh softly. “Over my dead body.”
Dante’s mouth curves. “That’s what I told him you’d say.”
We fall quiet for a moment, the only sound the distant crash of waves and the boys’ shouting. His hand finds mine on the railing. His fingers thread through mine, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist in small circles. It’s a small thing, automatic now, but it still makes my pulse skip every time.
He notices the way my other hand rests low on my stomach.
“Active today?” he asks.
I nod. “Kicking like she wants to join the game.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, then turns fully toward me. His free hand comes up, palm open, waiting. I guide it to the spot just below my navel. A second later, there’s a firm thump against his palm.
Dante’s breath catches. Every time he feels her move, it’s like the first time he’s feeling it.
His eyes always widen slightly, mouth parting in surprise, and that fierce tenderness he still doesn’t quite know shows on his face is evident.
He keeps his hand there, waiting for another kick, and when it comes, he smiles.
“She’s strong,” he says.
“Like her brother.” I tilt my head. “And her father.”
He looks at me then, his grey-green eyes searching mine. Before he can say anything, there’s a knock on our bedroom door. We both turn toward the sound, finding Romano standing just outside the doorway looking slightly out of breath.
“You both might want to come downstairs. There’s… a visitor waiting for you.”
Dante’s brows knit together immediately, calculation narrowing his eyes. He must be thinking the same thing I am. Who would be bold enough to come here without notifying the villa’s Don first? And who had the kind of clearance to do it without any alarms raising hell?
“Stay here,” he tells me, his hand slipping away from mine.
I grab his arm before he can get any farther than two steps. “I’m coming with you.”
“Elena—”
I fix him with a tight look. “Romano wouldn’t be inviting us downstairs if it were dangerous. Right?”
I turn my attention to Dante’s lieutenant then, giving him a pointed look. Romano meets my eyes without flinching. After a beat, he gives a solid nod, stepping back from the doorway and waving his hand toward the hall.
“It’s better if you both come.”
Dante hesitates. I can feel the tension in his arm beneath my grip with the familiar instinct to shield me warring with the knowledge that I refuse to be left behind. Finally, he exhales through his nose, a short, resigned sound, and takes my hand in his.
“Together,” he says quietly.
We follow Romano out of the bedroom and down the wide staircase, my bare feet silent on the stone floor while Dante’s boots make soft thuds beside me. The villa feels strangely still, the usual afternoon sounds of staff moving through the halls now a distant clatter.
My pulse climbs with every step.
We reach the main floor and turn down the corridor toward Dante’s study. The double doors are closed but light spills from beneath them. Romano stops just outside, his hand on the knob. “He insisted on seeing you both. Well, mainly you, Donna.”
Dante’s jaw tightens. “Who the fuck is asking for my wife specifically? And why wasn’t I notified before they were inside my house?”
Romano doesn’t answer him. Instead, he turns the handle and pushes the door open. The study is lit by a low fire in the hearth and the single lamp on Dante’s desk. Shadows stretch from the bookshelves and bathe the rug in darkness.
Before Dante can block me from entering, I slip past him and step into the study. My eyes scan the room, landing on a figure standing over by the windows. He has his back to us, both hands clasped behind him.
I blink a few times, not quite believing what I’m seeing. Because standing there in the middle of Dante’s study is someone I never thought I’d see again.
My father.
He turns at the sound of the door opening.
He’s thinner than I remember, his shoulders narrower than the once-broad frame that used to make him seem invincible, pared down by the years and whatever toll hiding took on him.
His once-dark hair is threaded heavily with silver at the temples and along the sides, catching the low lighting like frost.
The suit he wears is simple, well-tailored but not ostentatious.
It’s the same quiet charcoal grey he always favored when I was a child, the kind that let a man like him move through crowds without drawing attention.
His left hand rests lightly on the head of a polished ebony cane, the grip worn smooth from use.
When our eyes meet, the years fall away in a single heartbeat.
“Elena,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Tears burn behind my eyes so fast, I can’t stop them. “Papa…”
I’m already moving, crossing the thick Persian rug on unsteady legs before he can step away from the windows.
My bare feet sink into the weave as my heart slams against my ribs hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
He meets me in the middle, arms held out, cane clutched in one as he shifts his weight to his better side.
I crash into him the way I always used to when I was little, pressing my face into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist as though I can hold him here with me so he never disappears again.
He’s smaller than memory painted him but the scent is the same—old books, faint cigar smoke he never quite gave up, and something clean that reminds me of home.
He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tight.
One hand cradles the back of my head, the other settles between my shoulder blades.
He rocks me gently, though the movement is stiffer now, his cheek pressed to the top of my hair the way he used to when thunderstorms rolled in off the coast and I crawled into his lap convinced the sky was falling apart.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I whisper. I pull back just enough to look at him.
Wrinkles mar the corners of his eyes now—deep crow’s feet that weren’t there the last time I saw him—and there’s a faint tremor in his hand when he lifts it to cup my face, the other reaching down to settle on his cane again.
But the smile he gives me is the same one he used to flash when I’d sneak into his study late at night with a midnight snack.
“I heard about what happened with Cesare’s old circle. And the Bellanti mess.” His thumbs brush away the tears sliding down my cheeks. “It took me a while to find you. I had to be certain no one was still hunting us.”
I smile. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
His eyes drop to the swell, widening slightly. His hand moves until his palm rests feather-light over the spot just below my navel. A soft kick answers almost immediately, as though our daughter recognizes him too.
His breath hitches. “How far along?”
I rest a hand over his, patting it gently. “Twenty-two weeks. Our second, actually. You’re already a grandpa to a little boy.”
A tear slips free and tracks down the side of his face. “Oh, how wonderful, Elena. Though, I hope the boy isn’t too stubborn?”
“He’s just like his mother,” Dante says from the doorway.
My father looks up, meeting Dante’s gaze over my shoulder. For a long moment, there is only silence between them. When he finally speaks again, he does so with a slight incline of his head.
“I have come to ask for you to grant me mercy. I… there is a lot that happened back then. And I—”
Dante holds up his hand, silencing my father immediately. “I know. Elena found your ledger.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “You did?”
I nod, pulling my father into another tight hug before letting him go again. “You saved us, Papa. We were able to figure out what Enzo had done. That you weren’t a part of anything that happened.”
My father’s eyes shine brighter. “I never stopped trying to keep you safe. Even when I had to disappear so they wouldn’t use me to find you. Even when I had to let you believe I was gone forever.”
My throat tightens. “I know. You were trying to protect all of us. Including Matteo.”
“I failed him,” he says, voice cracking again.
“No.” I cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the silver at his temples. “You didn’t. You gave us the truth about what happened when he died. You gave Dante a chance to kill the real man who betrayed his family.”
He exhales slowly, like a weight he’s carried for years has finally begun to shift.
“I’d… like to stay,” he says, almost shyly. “Not to interfere with anything or reclaim my old position. Just… to be here. To know my grandson. And meet my other grandchild.” His hand settles gently over my belly again. “If you’ll allow it.”
I turn to look at Dante then.
Finally, he steps into the study.
He doesn’t answer right away, using the sudden silence to slowly walk toward me. When he reaches us, he wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me close. His presence is warm, steady against my side. It soothes me instantly, calming the unsteady beat of my heart.
“You’re welcome here, Giovanni. Always. As family.”
My father’s shoulders sag slightly, as though the last of his strength has finally been released. “Thank you.”
Luca’s voice echoes suddenly from the hallway, appearing only a moment later inside the doorframe. “Mama? Papa? Where did you—Oh, who’s here?”
He stops short when he sees my father.
My father’s eyes widen at the sight of him.
I smile through the tears that refuse to stop rolling down my cheeks. I quickly brush them away before looking back at my father, holding out a hand and squeezing it once he finally takes it. “Come meet your grandson.”
Luca waits patiently by the door, his eyes bouncing between the three of us curiously. Dante lowers himself down to eye level with our son, gently sliding a hand over the top of his head to brush a few unruly strands away from his eyes.
“Luca, you remember your mom and me talking about your having a grandfather, right? The one who lived far away?”
His eyes widen. “I remember!”
“This is your grandfather, Luca,” I say.
My father’s face crumples completely. He drops slowly to one knee, his cane clattering to the floor beside him, and opens his arms up wide. Luca doesn’t hesitate. He runs forward and throws himself against my father’s chest, nearly knocking him completely onto the floor.
“You came back!”
My father wraps his arms around him, holding him tight, rocking gently as he did with me moments ago. “I did, il nipote. I am so happy to meet you.”
Luca squeezes him tight. “Me too! You’re staying forever, right?”
I lean back against Dante’s chest, letting out a soft laugh. His arms come around me from behind, one hand resting protectively over mine on my belly. “Yes. He is.”
“Yay!”
I close my eyes and feel the soft flutter of our daughter’s answer beneath our joined hands.
Finally.
Everyone is safely home.