EPILOGUE - EMILIA
The air in Tuscany tasted like freedom.
Or maybe it was just the wine.
Either way, I stood barefoot on the terrace of our villa, a glass of red in my hand and the sun sinking low over the hills, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. No gunfire. No blood. No Russians. Just the soft rustle of grapevines in the breeze and the faint sound of Dante cursing in Italian from inside the kitchen.
Apparently, he’d decided we were going to cook dinner together.
Which was cute. And wildly optimistic.
I took another sip of wine and leaned against the stone railing, letting my eyes drift over the vineyard that stretched out below us. It was ours now. Mine, technically. Dante had signed the deed over to me the day after our second wedding, like it was a bouquet of flowers instead of a multimillion-dollar estate with a functioning winery and a staff of twenty.
“You said you wanted something that was yours,” he’d told me, sliding the papers across the table. “This is me giving it to you.”
And he had.
The land. The house. The vines.
The future.
I heard the screen door creak open behind me.
“You’re not helping,” Dante said, stepping onto the terrace with a wooden spoon in one hand and a smear of tomato sauce on his shirt. “You said we were cooking together.”
“I’m supervising,” I said, lifting my glass. “It’s a vital role.”
He gave me a look, one brow arched, and set the spoon down on the table beside me. Then he reached for my wine and took a sip without asking.
“I was drinking that,” I said.
“You’re always drinking something.”
“Because I’m married to you.”
He smirked. “You’re welcome.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the view, but he didn’t let me get far. His arms slid around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, and his mouth found the curve of my neck.
“You’re relaxed,” he murmured, lips brushing my skin. “I like it.”
“I’m on vacation,” I said. “You’re lucky I’m wearing pants.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “I wouldn’t complain if you weren’t.”
I tilted my head, letting him kiss his way up to my jaw. “You’re supposed to be stirring the sauce.”
“It’ll survive.”
I turned in his arms, looping mine around his neck. “You’re really bad at taking time off.”
He shrugged, mouth curving into a grin. “You’re really bad at staying out of trouble.”
“Touché.”
We stood there for a moment, the sun dipping lower, casting everything in gold. His eyes were softer here. Less guarded. Like the weight of the world had finally loosened its grip on him.
I liked this version of him.
I liked all versions of him, if I was being honest. Even the dangerous ones. Especially the dangerous ones.
But this one—this relaxed, sun-drenched, barefoot-in-Italy version—this one was mine.
“Do you think the winery will be successful?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
He looked down at me. “I think if you run it, it’ll be unstoppable.”
I smiled, but it felt different. Real. Like it belonged to me.
“I don’t want it to just be a vanity project,” I said. “I want it to mean something.”
“It already does,” he said. “It means you survived. It means you built something out of the ashes.”
I blinked, surprised by the weight of his words.
He cupped my face, his thumb brushing along my cheek. “You’re not just my wife, Emilia. You’re my legacy.”
I kissed him.
Because what else do you do when the man who once threatened to ruin you tells you you’re the best thing he’s ever done?
The rest of the trip passed in a blur of sun and wine and lazy mornings tangled in sheets. We visited the Amalfi Coast, where Dante rented a yacht so large I was convinced it needed its own zip code. We drank espresso in Rome, wandered through the ruins like we owned them, and made love in a hotel suite that overlooked the Colosseum.
And, of course, he bought me a new Starbucks mug in every city.
In Venice, he handed me a limited-edition gold-rimmed mug with a look of smug satisfaction. “For your collection,” he said, his voice smooth.
I turned it over in my hands, tracing the delicate design. “You know,” I said, glancing up at him, “I didn’t actually care about mugs when this started.”
His brow arched, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No?”
I shook my head, laughing softly. “No. I just wanted to waste your money and annoy you in every way I could. I figured if I couldn’t get under your skin one way, I’d do it with overpriced coffee mugs.” I paused, turning the mug over again in my hands. “But after a while, I actually started to enjoy it. The hunt, finding the rare ones, adding to the collection. And now…” I glanced up at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Now, my collection is incredible.”
He smirked, the glint in his eye far too knowing. “I figured.”
I blinked. “You did?”
“Of course.” He leaned casually against the railing, folding his arms as he watched me. “The Starbucks charges kept popping up on my credit card after you’d already blown $7.8 million in three days on diamond-encrusted nonsense.” He paused, tilting his head slightly, his smirk growing sharper. “By the way, I never saw this package come in, but what happened to the bespoke toilet seat?”
I snorted, unable to stop my laughter. “Oh, that’s got a year-long turnaround time,” I said, grinning. “It’s handmade by some elite artisan in Europe who’s, like, ninety-six years old. He personally sources every gemstone himself or something.”
He tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Gemstones?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, nodding solemnly. “The seat is completely covered in blue diamonds, pink sapphires, and rubies. It’s art, Dante.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “A year for a toilet seat.”
“Only the finest,” I said with mock seriousness, lifting the mug in a toast.
His laughter softened, and he leaned back against the railing, his gaze lingering on me. “At first, I thought you were just committed to the bit,” he admitted. “But once the outrageous charges stopped and it was just the mugs, I realized you were actually having fun.”
I rolled my eyes, though my cheeks warmed. “Okay, fine. Maybe I was.”
“It was obvious,” he said, his voice dipping lower. “And I’ll admit, I started looking forward to the packages.”
My eyebrows shot up, surprised. “You did?”
He nodded, his expression unreadable for a moment. “I’d get a notification about a delivery and wonder what absurdly gaudy thing you’d ordered this time. It was… entertaining.” His lips curved into a faint smile. “And I don’t get entertained easily.”
I stared at him, my chest tightening at the admission. Somehow, he always managed to disarm me—always managed to turn something ridiculous into something that felt like more.
“You never said anything,” I said softly, my fingers tightening around the mug.
“Why would I?” His tone was casual, but his gaze was steady, warm. “It made you happy. That’s all that mattered.”
I turned the mug over in my hands again, the gold rim catching the sunlight. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. How could something as absurd as a Starbucks mug collection feel so… significant?
He leaned in slightly, his voice dipping lower, teasing now. “So, what’s next? A matching bespoke toilet brush?”
I choked on a laugh, shaking my head. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”
His laugh rumbled low in his chest, and for a moment, the world felt smaller—just the two of us, surrounded by sunlight and the quiet hum of Venice in the background.
On our last night, we sat on the rooftop of the villa, a blanket wrapped around our shoulders and a bottle of wine between us. The stars were out—bright, endless, and indifferent to everything we’d survived. The vineyard below was quiet, the vines sleeping beneath the moonlight, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze like they were whispering secrets to the hills.
Dante sat beside me, legs stretched out, one arm slung behind me on the blanket. His other hand cradled his wine glass, though he hadn’t taken a sip in a while. He was watching the stars, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. Not unreadable. Not calculating. Just… still.
I leaned my head against his shoulder, letting the silence settle between us like a warm coat. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the kind of silence that buzzed with things unsaid. It was the kind that only came when you knew the person beside you would still be there when the sun came up.
“I don’t want to go back,” I said quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, his arm tightening around me.
“Then we don’t,” he said finally.
I blinked. “What?”
“We don’t go back,” he repeated, his voice low, steady. “We stay. Here. As long as you want.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him. “You’re serious.”
He nodded once. “I’ve done enough killing for a lifetime. I’ve built the empire. Protected it. Burned down anyone who tried to take it from me. But this?” He gestured to the vineyard, the stars, the quiet. “This is the first thing I’ve ever built that feels like it could last.”
My throat tightened. I looked down at the wine glass in my hands, the deep red liquid catching the starlight like blood and rubies.
“I don’t know how to be still,” I admitted. “I don’t know how to just… be.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “You just have to be here. With me.”
I smiled, but it felt fragile. “You’re really bad at pretending you’re not a romantic.”
He laughed, low and warm. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
I leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
We sat like that for a while, wrapped in the blanket, the night stretching out around us like a promise. I thought about everything we’d been through—every betrayal, every bullet, every whispered threat. I thought about the woman I’d been when I first met him—sharp, angry, always ready to run. And I thought about the woman I was now.
Still sharp. Still angry, sometimes. But no longer running.
Because I’d found something worth staying for.
The next morning, we didn’t pack.
We didn’t talk about flights or schedules or what waited for us back in the city. We just moved through the villa like we belonged there—like we’d always belonged there. Dante made coffee in the kitchen, shirtless and barefoot, his hair a mess and his eyes still heavy with sleep. I sat at the table in one of his button-downs, legs curled beneath me, watching him like he was the sunrise.
“I could get used to this,” I said, sipping from my Venice mug.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You already have.”
I grinned. “You’re not going to miss the chaos?”
He shrugged, pouring two cups. “There’s always chaos. But it doesn’t have to live in the same room as us.”
He brought me my coffee and kissed the top of my head before sitting across from me.
“I’m going to start planting next week,” I said. “The new vines. I want to do it myself.”
He nodded. “I’ll help.”
“You’ll complain.”
“Probably.”
I laughed, and he smiled, and for a moment, everything felt simple.
?
Later, we walked the vineyard together, hand in hand, the sun warm on our backs. The staff waved as we passed—some of them still a little wary of Dante, but warming to me. I’d made it a point to learn their names, to ask about their families, to show them that I wasn’t just the woman who’d married the don.
I was the woman who was going to make this place bloom.
We reached the edge of the property, where the vines gave way to wildflowers and the view opened up to rolling hills and distant mountains. I stopped, taking it all in, the wind tugging at my hair, the scent of earth and grapes thick in the air.
“This is mine,” I said.
Dante looked at me. “All of it.”
I turned to him. “You gave me a kingdom.”
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering at my jaw like he couldn’t bear to stop touching me.
“I didn’t give you a kingdom,” he said quietly. “You built one.”
I blinked, the words hitting me harder than I expected. Not because they were dramatic or poetic—but because they were true. Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t surviving someone else’s legacy. I wasn’t just the daughter of a mafia accountant or the wife of a powerful man. I wasn’t a pawn or a prize or a problem to be solved.
I was a woman who had clawed her way through blood and fire and betrayal.
And I was still standing.
I smiled, slow and real. “You really are a romantic.”
He smirked. “Don’t tell anyone.”
I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
We stood there for a long time, watching the sun rise over the hills. The light turned the vines gold, the sky a soft wash of pink and orange, the kind of morning that made you believe in second chances.
Eventually, Dante pulled me close, his arms wrapping around my waist, his chin resting on top of my head.
“Do you think they’ll leave us alone?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer right away. Just held me tighter.
“They can try,” he said finally. “But they’ll have to go through me.”
I tilted my head up to look at him. “And if they do?”
His eyes darkened. “Then I’ll remind them who the fuck I am.”
I smiled. “You’re mine.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
?
The rest of the day passed in a haze of sun and laughter and wine. We walked the rows of vines, barefoot and hand-in-hand, talking about everything and nothing. Dante asked questions about soil acidity and fermentation like he genuinely cared, and I tried not to laugh when he squinted at a grape like it had personally offended him.
We had lunch on the terrace—fresh bread, soft cheese, olives, and a bottle of wine from the cellar. Dante insisted on opening it himself, even though he nearly broke the cork and muttered something about “just shooting the damn bottle.”
I took a picture of him holding it up triumphantly, shirtless and smug, and posted it to my private Instagram with the caption: “Husband, feral. Wine, intact. A miracle.”
Adrianna commented: “You’re living my dream.”
I replied: “It’s mostly wine and threats of violence. 10/10 would recommend.”
By sunset, we were back on the rooftop, a second bottle of wine between us, the stars beginning to blink into existence above.
I curled into Dante’s side, my head on his shoulder, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek.
“I think I’m happy,” I said, surprised by the words.
He looked down at me. “Only think?”
I smiled. “I’m still adjusting.”
He kissed my forehead. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
I believed him.
?
That night, I lay in bed beside him, the sheets cool against my skin, his arm draped over my waist. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the crickets outside, the soft rustle of the vines in the wind.
I thought about everything we’d been through.
The lies. The blood. The betrayals.
The love.
Because that’s what it was now. Not just lust or survival or circumstance.
It was love.
Messy. Complicated. Terrifying.
But real.
I turned to face him, brushing my fingers along the line of his jaw. He stirred, eyes still closed, a soft sound escaping his throat.
“I love you,” I whispered.
His eyes opened, slow and sleepy. “Took you long enough.”
I laughed, and he pulled me closer, burying his face in my neck.
“You’re mine,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“And I’m yours.”
“Forever.”
He kissed me then, slow and deep, and I melted into him like I’d been waiting my whole life for this moment.
Because maybe I had.