Extended Epilogue
Don Marco Calebresi
I scan the room, glass of scotch in hand, watching the families of La Corona celebrate Christmas.
The grand ballroom of my estate, transformed with twinkling lights and evergreen garlands, buzzes with conversation and laughter.
Roman stands with Isabella, his hand protectively at the small of her back. It’s nice to see him happy again.
This holiday cheer surrounds me but doesn't penetrate.
I like to observe more than participate.
I don’t have a wife. No children. And I don’t plan to.
Parties like this seem to be specifically for wives and children.
"Aren't you going to join in, Marco?" Dominic Vitale approaches, nodding toward the gathering.
"I am exactly where I need to be." My eyes drift across the room, landing on Gabriella Monti.
She stands near the Christmas tree, elegant in a deep green dress that accentuates her impressive curves.
She’s twenty-eight years old and possesses all the grace her father lacks. Personality too.
She’s like sunshine mixed with champagne bubbles. Both are things I feel like I hate, except in her.
Her dark hair falls in wild waves past her shoulders, and when she laughs at something Elena says, I find myself wishing I could hear it clearly.
I shouldn't notice these things. Antonio Monti's daughter is off-limits, not because of any formal rule but because of complications it would create.
Relationships between families must be strategic, controlled.
What I feel when I look at Gabriella is neither.
She glances up, catching me watching her. Instead of looking away, I raise my glass slightly. She holds my gaze for a moment before returning to her conversation.
"Something interesting about Don Monti's daughter?" Dominic asks, following my line of sight.
"Just observing." My tone ends the inquiry.
I take another sip of scotch, letting the burn distract me. This attraction is inconvenient, unwelcome. Yet as I watch her move through the room with quiet confidence, I know it's not something I can simply dismiss.
I force myself to look away from Gabriella, focusing instead on Roman's daughter Angelica chasing the Vitale triplets around a massive Christmas tree.
"Don Calabresi." Leonardo Ferraza approaches, clapping my shoulder. "Quite the transformation with your enforcer. Marriage suits him."
"Some men are built for it," I reply. Ten years ago, I couldn’t imagine Roman being married. Then he met Emilia and he was a changed man.
When she died, something died with him until Isabella. Marriage suits him. Makes him more himself.
But not me. I've kept La Corona and the Calabresi family strong precisely because I remain unattached.
No wife to become a target.
No children to become leverage.
Just the cold clarity of power and purpose. Sure, I have no heirs, but Roman is like a brother. Should I pass, he’ll make a great Don.
I drain my scotch, signaling a server for another as my eyes drift back to Gabriella against my will.
She's helping the children now, her face animated as she organizes some game.
That perpetual cheerfulness of hers should repel me. I've always preferred women with darkness that matches my own. Not this effervescent light.
Yet I can't look away.
She's laughing again, her entire face transformed by joy. It's so foreign to me, that easy happiness. It's annoying. Irritating. And somehow magnetic.
"You're staring, Marco," Antonio Monti says, materializing beside me. "Something interesting about my daughter?"
I maintain my composure, though inwardly I curse my lapse in vigilance. "Just considering how different our approaches to family are, Antonio. Most Dons would have kept their daughters cloistered and married them off when they reached Gabriella’s age."
He laughs. “You’ve met my daughter, haven’t you? Locking her up would be like trying to box in a tsunami. Nah, I’ve got Luca to carry on the family business. Let Gabriella be Gabriella.”
He eyes me with something between suspicion and amusement. "Gabriella has always been curious about you. The mysterious Don Calabresi."
The information registers, though I don't let it show. Instead, I nod politely and excuse myself, needing distance from both Monti and the daughter I shouldn't be thinking about.
I move through the crowd, making it look like I’m mingling or hosting or whatever the fuck I should be doing. My guests part before me, offering respectful nods that I barely acknowledge.
My attention is elsewhere. Gabriella has disappeared from the main gathering.
It shouldn't matter. She's not my concern.
Yet I find myself drifting away from the celebration, listening for her distinctive laugh among the corridors of my home. The farther I move from the ballroom, the quieter it becomes.
My library door stands ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I pause at the threshold, observing her unnoticed.
Gabriella stands before my first-edition collection, fingers tracing the spine of a leather-bound Machiavelli.
She's removed her heels, standing barefoot on the Persian rug. Her dress catches the firelight as she moves, revealing glimpses of skin through the side slit.
"Finding anything interesting?" I ask, stepping into the room.
She turns, startled but not embarrassed. "Don Calabresi. I hope you don't mind the intrusion."
"Marco," I correct her. "And it depends on your intentions with my books."
A smile plays at her lips. "Are you as protective of your library as you are of your territory?"
"More so." I approach, standing closer than propriety allows. "These are irreplaceable."
"Like many things worth having." Her gaze holds mine, challenging.
I take the book from her hands, our fingers brushing. "Machiavelli. Interesting choice."
"I was curious what the most feared Don in New York reads in his private moments."
"Feared?" I raise an eyebrow. "Is that how you see me?"
She tilts her head, studying me. "I see many things."
"Such as?"
"That your reputation serves you well, but it's not the whole truth." She steps closer, her perfume mingling with the scent of old books. "You maintain distance, but are you conceited or socially awkward? A modern Mr. Darcy.”
“Jane Austen books are over there.” I point to another shelf but don’t take my eyes off her.
“Deflecting. You don’t want anyone to know you… the real you.”
"Dangerous conclusions to draw," I murmur, placing the book aside without looking away from her. "Especially alone with me."
"Yet here I stand." Her smile turns playful. "Unafraid."
"Perhaps you should be." I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her skin. It’s amazingly soft.
"Perhaps you should be the one worried," she counters, her hand coming to rest lightly on my chest. "I'm not easily controlled, Marco."
“Who says I want to control you?”
She laughs. “All Dons want to control everything around them, even their women. Especially their women. Why is that? Are Dons secretly insecure?”
"You've always been too bold for your own good, Gabriella," I say, my voice dropping lower as I step closer. The library feels suddenly smaller, the air between us charged.
Her fingers remain on my chest and I can feel her warmth through the expensive fabric of my suit.
"And you've always been too controlled for yours," she counters, looking up at me through dark lashes. "Always observing, never participating. Don't you ever tire of standing apart? Don’t you ever want to be a part of life? Of living?"
I take her wrist gently, intending to remove her hand from my chest, but instead find myself holding it there. "There are advantages to observation. I see things others miss."
"What do you see when you look at me?" Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers.
"Trouble," I answer honestly. "Beautiful trouble."
She laughs softly, the sound intimate in the quiet library. "At least you admit I'm beautiful."
"That was never in question." I release her wrist, but she doesn't withdraw her hand. Instead, she smooths my lapel slowly.
"You know," she murmurs, "my father thinks I should be afraid of you."
"Your father is a wise man."
Gabriella steps even closer. "I feel many things here with you, Marco Calabresi, but fear isn't one of them."
I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, tilting her face up to mine. "What do you feel, then?"
Her eyes darken as she leans into my touch. "Curiosity. Anticipation." She pauses, her lips parting slightly. "Heat."
The word hangs between us, honest and provocative.
"You’re playing with fire, Gabriella Monti," I warn, though my hand now cups her cheek.
"Perhaps," she agrees, reaching up to brush her fingers along the back of my neck, "but some flames are worth the burn."
Fucking hell. I surrender to impulse, pulling Gabriella against me and claiming her mouth with mine.
The control I've maintained my entire life fractures as her lips part beneath mine, eager and responsive.
She tastes like champagne and possibility, a dangerous combination.
Her fingers thread through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp as she presses herself closer.
The kiss deepens, turning from exploration to demand.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, warning bells are clanging, but I don’t heed them.
Instead, I back her against the bookshelf, my hand sliding down to her waist, feeling the heat of her through the silk of her dress until I find the slit of her dress and press my hand along her thigh.
When we break apart, her eyes are dark with desire, her breathing uneven. I should step away. I don't.
"I've wanted to do that for longer than I care to admit," I confess, my voice rough.
Gabriella's smile is triumphant. "I know." She traces my bottom lip with her thumb. "I've seen the way you watch me when you think no one's looking."
"And what else do you think you know about what I want?"
Her laugh is low, seductive. "That you want to discover every inch of me. That you want to know if I'm as fearless in bed as I am facing down the most dangerous Don in New York."