EPILOGUE - SIX MONTHS LATER
Six Months Later
I STEP INTO the kitchen and pause to admire the symphony of motion around me. Steam rises from pots, knives flash against cutting boards, and calls of "Yes, Chef!" punctuate the controlled chaos. My chef's coat feels crisp against my skin, the embroidered "Executive Chef" still gives me a little thrill every time I catch sight of it.
"Table seven is waiting on the risotto," I call out, weaving between stations with practiced ease.
Six months ago, I couldn't have imagined this. My own restaurant. My own kitchen. My own rules.
The aroma of saffron and seafood fills my nostrils as I lean over to inspect a dish before it goes out. "More microgreens, lighter hand on the sauce," I instruct, watching as the line cook nods earnestly and makes the adjustments.
Through the pass, I can see into the private dining area where Lily sits with Karen and my dad. School books are spread across the table alongside an elaborate chocolate dessert that Emilio, our pastry chef, created specifically for Lily. Dad points at something in Lily's notebook, his face relaxed and clear-eyed as he helps explain a math problem. The change in him is remarkable—three months of rehab and six months sober have brought back the man I once knew, before gambling and alcohol took him away. I know his recovery wouldn’t have been possible without the first-class rehabilitation center that Marco paid for. It’s the same one where Baz is; he’s recovering slowly, too, and they believe he will be back to himself in a few more months.
"Sasha, look! Dad helped me figure out fractions!" Lily waves a paper enthusiastically when she spots me watching.
"That's amazing, Lil! We'll celebrate properly when I'm done here," I call back, feeling that familiar surge of pride.
Dad looks up and gives me a genuine smile—something I wouldn't have believed possible a year ago. Karen sits beside him, a careful distance between them. Their relationship is still strained, wounds still healing after years of her picking up his pieces. But they're trying, for Lily's sake. I catch Karen's subtle nod to me—our own private language of co-parenting that we've developed.
We're an unusual family, but we're making it work.
I'm so focused on plating a special order that I don't notice the shift in the kitchen's energy until I hear someone call, "Boss is here."
My head snaps up instinctively, and there he is—Marco, standing by the back entrance.
He's different here. Softer around the edges, though no less commanding. His eyes find mine across the kitchen, and the world narrows to just us for a heartbeat.
After everything, he still makes my heart stutter.
I finish what I'm doing and make my way over to him, wiping my hands on a towel.
"Checking up on your investment?" I tease, but there's no bite to it.
Marco's lips curve upward. "Checking up on something far more valuable than that," he murmurs, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss against my lips.
"I'm disgusting right now," I protest half-heartedly. "All kitchen sweat and fish scales."
"You're perfect." His thumb traces my cheekbone before he steps back. "Don't let me interrupt. I know the critics from the Times are here tonight."
My eyes widen. "How did you—never mind. I don't want to know."
“I just want to drop by and wish you luck, not that you need it.” He smiles softly at me.
“Dad, Lily, and Karen are in there if you want to join them.” I offer.
“Maybe later.” Marco leans in and places a kiss on my lips. “I’m going to visit Baz, but I’ll be back later.”
“Okay, tell him I said hi.” I fire back. I glance at the busy kitchen.
“Go, work. I’ll talk to you later.”
I return to the command center, shouting out orders with renewed vigor.
"So, it's official now?" I ask, swirling the last of my wine in its glass. The restaurant is empty except for two staff members sweeping up; the lights dimmed to a warm glow.
Marco nods, looking more relaxed than I've ever seen him. His tie is loosened, sleeves rolled up, exposing those forearms that still distract me embarrassingly often.
"Damien finalized the paperwork yesterday. Walsh Security Consulting is now a fully legitimate operation, specializing in high-end corporate security and risk assessment." His fingers drum lightly on the table. "We've retained most of our clients through the transition."
"And the other things?" I ask quietly.
He meets my eyes directly. "Being dismantled or restructured, piece by piece. It's not immediate—can't be, without creating bigger problems—but it's happening."
I nod, understanding the complexities he's navigating. Nothing about Marco's world allows for clean breaks or fresh starts. It's all gradual shifts, careful recalibrations.
"Any word from James?" I ask, bringing up the brother who vanished after Patrick's death.
Marco's expression clouds momentarily. "He's in France with Mary, according to our sources. Keeping his distance." He sighs. "Maybe that's for the best, for now."
I reach across the table to take his hand, feeling the familiar calluses against my palm.
Marco’s expression shifts, and he withdraws his hand. He reaches into his pocket, suddenly looking almost...nervous? It's such an unfamiliar expression on his face that I sit up straighter.
"I've been carrying this around for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment," he admits, turning a small velvet box in his hands. "But I'm realizing there is no perfect moment. Just this—us, building something together day by day."
My breath catches as he opens it, revealing a ring nestled inside—platinum band with a striking emerald-cut diamond, elegant but not flashy. Exactly what I would have chosen.
Of course, he knows. He's always known me, sometimes better than I know myself.
"I can't promise you a normal life," he says, his voice low and honest. "But I can promise you'll never face anything alone again. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together."
Tears prick at my eyes as I look from the ring to his face, seeing everything written there—the love, the promise, the absolute certainty.
"Together," I agree, my voice thick as I extend my hand. The ring slides onto my finger, a perfect fit. Just like us—unexpected, imperfect, but somehow right.
I can't take my eyes off the emerald glittering on my finger, the stone catching the dim glow of the chandeliers overhead. Its weight feels surreal, almost symbolic, resting there as if marking me as his.
"Everyone out," Marco orders abruptly, his voice carrying a rough edge that sends a shiver down my spine.
The staff glance at each other, quickly slipping out silently, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. The sudden quiet amplifies the sound of my heartbeat, pulsing steadily faster with each passing second.
Marco doesn't take his eyes off me. Slowly, deliberately, he circles the table, each footfall echoing like a promise. The tension thickens the air between us, charged with anticipation.
"Do you like it?" he asks quietly, standing directly behind me.
"It's stunning," I whisper, breath hitching as his hands settle lightly on my shoulders, fingers skimming over my skin in featherlight touches. Warmth radiates through me, pooling low in my abdomen.
"Not nearly as stunning as you," Marco murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. I tilt my head slightly, leaning into his touch, craving more. His lips brush gently over the curve of my neck, making me gasp softly.
"Marco..." My voice trails off into a quiet moan as he kisses the sensitive spot beneath my ear, his teeth grazing my skin. His hands slide down my shoulders, tracing along my collarbones, slipping lower to caress the curves of my breasts through my silk blouse. My breathing turns uneven, desire swelling inside me like an unstoppable tide.
He tugs at the fabric impatiently, undoing buttons swiftly until the blouse parts, exposing my skin to his exploring hands. His fingers skim over my bare flesh, igniting sparks wherever they touch. Slowly, he turns my chair, guiding me to face him. My heart slams against my chest at the heated intensity in his dark eyes.
"Stand," he commands softly.
I rise shakily, the chair scraping back across the polished floor. Marco's gaze roams over me hungrily as he pushes the blousefrom my shoulders, letting it flutter softly to the floor. He pulls me closer, his hands settling on my hips possessively, fingers pressing firmly, anchoring me to him.
"You're mine, Sasha," he whispers roughly, eyes blazing with fierce possession.
"Yours," I breathe, surrendering fully.
Marco's mouth crashes onto mine, hungry and demanding. His tongue sweeps inside, claiming me entirely, and I melt into him, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. The world disappears—there's only Marco, the heat of his skin, the strength of his arms around me.
He guides me backward, lifting me effortlessly onto the dining table. The cool tabletop beneath me contrasts deliciously with the scorching heat of his touch. Marco’s hands find the zipper of my skirt, tugging it down with controlled impatience, discarding it swiftly.
His fingers brush teasingly over the lace edge of my underwear, and my hips arch instinctively toward him, desperate for more. He smiles darkly, sliding the lace down my legs slowly, tormenting me with anticipation.
"Marco, please..." My voice trembles with desire.
He leans forward, his mouth tracing a searing path along my inner thigh. I grip the table’s edge, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the sensation. His tongue moves higher, brushing against my aching core, drawing a broken cry from my lips.
"Look at me," Marco commands hoarsely.
My eyes snap open, locking onto his intense gaze as he continues his exquisite torment. Pleasure spirals higher, each flick and stroke of his tongue bringing me closer to the edge. His name tumbles from my lips, breathless and pleading, until finally, mercifully, I shatter, sensations rippling through my body, leaving me trembling and spent.
Marco rises, swiftly undoing his belt and freeing himself. He aligns himself between my thighs, leaning over me, eyes locked with mine, his expression raw and vulnerable.
"Forever, Sasha," he murmurs, driving into me with one deep thrust.
I gasp sharply, wrapping my arms around his neck, holding him tightly as he moves within me, each movement deep and deliberate. Our bodies find a rhythm effortlessly; matched breaths and synchronized heartbeats fueling our passion.
He captures my lips again, tender and fierce, our moans blending into each other as pleasure builds rapidly. I cling desperately, nails scoring into his shoulders, as ecstasy crashes over us both, pulling us under wave after wave.
Spent, Marco gently gathers me against his chest, pressing soft kisses to my hair. I nestle into him, breathing deeply, feeling the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek.
"I love you," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
"And I you," Marco replies fiercely, his arms tightening around me protectively. "Always."
We gather our things, turn off the lights, and walk upstairs to the apartment above the restaurant. It's nothing like Marco's fortress of a house—it's smaller, warmer, filled with Lily's artwork and my cookbook collection and the gradually accumulating evidence of our life together.
As we reach the door, I glance back down to the street where Tony's car is parked, a dark sentinel against the curb. Some things haven't changed. Some never will. The danger that shadows Marco is part of our reality, one we've accepted.
But inside, with Marco's hand warm against the small of my back, I'm not afraid. We've created something I never thought possible when I first went to him for help.
I close the door behind us, leaving the shadows outside. At least for tonight.
LUCAS
The Aftermath
I CAN’T FEEL my legs.
Warm blood pours from the gash in my side, soaking my shirt, pooling beneath me. It’s thick and wet, and I know—I know —I’m dying. The pain is a dull throb now, not sharp like before. That scares me more than anything.
Marco's face flashes in my mind. His hand still gripping the knife. The shock in his eyes. The hurt.
Why? Why did he look like that ?
I press my hand to the wound, but it’s useless. My fingers are slick, trembling. This is it. My father was right. Marco turned on me. Betrayed me.
But then why did it look like it hurt him to do it?
The footsteps are fast and purposeful. I can’t turn my head. It must be Marco coming back to finish the job.
“Lucas,” Gerald breathes, crouching beside me. His hands are on me instantly. “You fool. I should have intervened before. Marco isn’t what your father said.”
I blink at him, confused. My throat is dry. “Wh…what’re you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer. Just slips an arm around my shoulders and warns, “This is going to hurt.”
“No—” I gasp as he hauls me up. Agony explodes in my side, and I cry out.
“Keep it down,” he hisses. “We don’t have much time.”
He half-drags, half-carries me behind a stack of crates. I'm swaying, teeth clenched, trying not to scream. My vision’s swimming, black at the edges.
“Your father lied to you, Lucas. He’s lost his mind from the cancer; he turned you all against each other.”
I freeze. “What?” It comes out a whisper, barely audible.
Gerald lowers me carefully to the ground. The crates shield us from view. I slump back, every nerve screaming.
Cancer. My father—cancer?
“I need to be ready when Tony gets here,” Gerald says, standing. “You have to stay quiet.”
All I can manage is a groan, and he takes it as an answer as he leaves my line of sight. I focus on breathing as the silence swallows me.
Then I hear voices. Faint, at first. Then clearer.
“I’ve taken care of it, Tony.” Gerald’s voice, calm and steady.
Tony’s reply is sharp. “Where did you dump him?”
I almost laugh. Almost. The coldness in his voice isn’t surprising—just…darkly funny.
“In the bottom of the river,” Gerald says smoothly. “I’ll finish up here.”
“Right. I’ve got enough to do.” Tony’s footsteps fade.
Silence falls.
And I’m still breathing.
But for how long?
THE END